Mrs. "Wogdelenk" wore a sort of mumps bandage of lace, and there was another lady perfectly dazzling with beads, and jewels and bits of trimming. They were all flaps and angles and flounces—these women. Not one of them looked as neat and decent a shape as Ann's clean, trim, little figure. Echoes of Masterman woke up in him again. Ladies indeed! Here were all these chattering people, with money, with leisure, with every chance in the world, and all they could do was to crowd like this into a couple of rooms and jabber nonsense about anagrams.
"Could Cypshi really mean Cuyps?" floated like a dissolving wreath of mist across his mind.
Abruptly resolution stood armed in his heart. He was going to get out of this!
"'Scuse me," he said, and began to wade neck deep through the bubbling tea party.
He was going to get out of it all!
He found himself close by Helen. "I'm orf," he said, but she gave him the briefest glance. She did not appear to hear him. "Still, Mr. Spratlingdown, you must admit there's a limit even to conformity," she was saying.…
He was in a curtained archway, and Ann was before him carrying a tray supporting several small sugar bowls.
He was moved to speech. "What a Lot!" he said, and then mysteriously, "I'm engaged to her." He indicated Helen's new hat, and became aware of a skirt he had stepped upon.
