Lola's frock reminded Beresford of the dense plumes of smoke from the chimney of a newly-stoked furnace. A touch of colour was supplied by a row of orange beads round her neck. Her movements, the carriage of her head, her general bearing were
"And how is your chest, Mr. Berry?" Mrs. Crisp suddenly turned her jet upon Beresford. "Have you tried camphorated-oil? So good for a cold. I always use it, and liquorice too. Rubbed in night and morning. Oil, I mean, not the liquorice. We've missed her so much, haven't we, Mr. Quelch. Yes, you sit there and you here, Lord Drewitt," indicating the seat next to Lola, "and you next to Lola, Mr. Berry."
"Why will people make life ugly with camphor, eucalyptus and peppermint?" said Lola to Beresford with a moue of disgust.
"And flannelette," interpolated Drewitt. "I had a great-aunt who spent half her money and all her time in making flannelette garments for harmless negroes. It's such an impertinence."
"Are you serious?" asked Lola, turning to him doubtfully.
"The negroes were," said Drewitt. "I believe those garments produced a revolution."
"You are laughing at me," she said reproachfully.
"To place flannelette garments upon limbs that hitherto have been gloriously free is," continued Drewitt, "as bad as"
"I see," she laughed.
