Echoes of conversations, recent, to come, or imaginary, floated round her. She thought of vol-au-vents and consommé (the former had been better than usual at lunch, the latter, for this evening, could be looked forward to with confidence, for Mrs Bilston’s Consommé à la Reine was one of the certainties of life); of Mrs Walker Kerr and the dullness of academic society (besides which, she and Sir Reuben Hergesheimer were both convinced that Mrs Walker Kerr had revoked at bridge the last time she came to dinner); but the girls were pretty – she liked a group of girls. There would be the two Miss Walker Kerrs and beautiful Grizel and dear hopeful Cicely – they would make a charming group. She meant to leave her aquamarine ring to Cicely, the one Randolph had given her for their Silver Wedding; it was the colour of Cicely’s eyes. In the meantime she might wear it herself this evening, with the blue satin with the bodice of lace guipure (blue was Minnie’s favourite colour). Galantine de Faisan aux Truffes … now why had she thought of that? They must have had it somewhere. Had she some recipe tucked away in a pocket or a glove, which she had asked for, for Mrs Bilston? It was so difficult to think of things to do with pheasants, and one had so many. One could do without the truffles probably, though Ida might ask John to bring some next time he came home via Paris. They did that sort of dish so beautifully at the Hôtel du Palais in Biarritz. One could never get English cooks to make things look pretty enough; they had no picture in their mind’s eye, nothing to work towards. She could carry her blue fan, the one painted with the rather plump lady and gentleman sitting in front of blue willow trees beside a blue lake, with a naked amaretto (back view) hiding behind a sort of sheep-pen, bow in hand, and ivory struts inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Not that she needed a fan, but who should prevent her, it being her own house? The ones she loved most were ostrich feathers, but for that sort of thing it really did have to be a dance, with long white gloves. She had some Parma violet gloves, a colour she liked almost as much as blue … pearl buttons at the wrists … satin, sequins, every kind of finery … and then such a pretty silk nightie. She really ought to do some shopping … an evening jacket, sequinned, perhaps the tiniest frill of tulle round the high collar? … a simple little blouse, silk with lace panels at the sides … underclothes, new stays?… Parma violets again, with silk ribbons and laces … all silk, satin, muslin and no rags at all …

‘Are you awake, Belle-Mère?’ Ida’s rather strident voice awoke her. ‘We ought to be getting ready.’ She was tapping at the door. Ida with her teeth and her integrity.