The Paper Princess by Marion Chesney Page B

to get back around the eighth to collect a new suit of evening clothes from the tailor.”
    “Call on Princess Felicity,” said Lord Arthur, “and tell her your friend, Lord Arthur Bessamy, wishes to meet her, and see what she says. I shall take you back to London myself.”
    Dolph looked huffy. It was not often he was invited to a rout from which his rich and elegant friend was excluded. Then his face lightened. “I'll ask,” he said cheerfully. “But she's bound to refuse. Now, when am I to meet your beloved?”
    “If you mean Miss Barchester, then say so,” said Lord Arthur curtly. “This afternoon, at four, for tea.”
    Dolph could not believe his eyes when he was introduced to Miss Barchester. He thought she looked as if one of the marble statues on the terrace of her home had come to life. She even had thick white eyelids and a small thinlipped curved smile.
    Lord Arthur, teacup in hand, was standing by the fireplace talking to Mr. Barchester. Mr. Barchester was a plump, rounded man with a jolly face, and his wife, dressed in chintz, looked like an overstuffed sofa. How two such cheerful individuals could have produced the pale and chilly Martha Barchester was beyond Dolph. He found that lady was eyeing him with a gray, cold look. Her gaze dropped from his face and fastened on the area of shirt that was bulging out from under his waistcoat. Dolph always felt his clothes took on a nasty life of their own the minute they left the hands of his valet. His waistcoats tried to move up to his chin, his shirts separated themselves from his breeches, the strings at the knees of his breeches untied themselves, and the starch left all his cravats a bare half an hour after he had put them on.
    His teacup rattled in the saucer as Miss Barchester began to speak. “Our fashions become more extreme, do you not think, Mr. Godolphin?”
    “I ... I...” bleated Dolph.
    “Yes, it is bad enough when the ladies adopt styles of semi-nudity and wear their waistlines up around their armpits. Now, I have my waistline in the right place. I never follow fashion. Fashion follows me. ”

    “Indeed,” said Dolph. “I fear London fashion cannot have had a chance to see you, Miss Barchester, for all the ladies adopt the high waistline.”
    “Are you contradicting me by any chance, Mr. Godolphin?”
    “No, no. I...”
    “Good. Male fashions are every bit as ridiculous. Why do you think so many men aspire to be Beau Brummells when they do not possess either his air or figure?” Her pale eyes fastened again on Dolph's area of shirt.
    “Blessed if I know,” said Dolph crossly.
    “London fashions,” pursued Miss Barchester, “are distasteful to me.”
    “Then, it's as well you ain't in London,” pointed out Dolph. He took a swig of tepid tea and eyed her over the rim of his cup.
    “But I shall be. I am thinking of persuading Mama and Papa to take me for a few weeks. I aim to ...
    how do the vulgar put it? ... cut a dash. ”
    Dolph looked at her curiously. Could she be funning? Or was her vanity so great that she really thought she could impress society?
    But she was his best friend's fiancée. He forced himself to be gallant. “Well, by Jove, Miss Barchester, the ladies of London will be agog to see the fair charmer who has stolen the heart of such a hardened bachelor as Lord Arthur.”
    “Exactly,” said Miss Barchester sweetly.
    Dolph blinked in amazement. This engagement to one of the most eligible men in the country had quite gone to Miss Barchester's head. What on earth did Arthur see in the creature?
    At that moment Lord Arthur strolled over to join them. “You are making me jealous, the pair of you,” he teased. “I saw you, rattling away there like old friends.”
    Miss Barchester at his arrival on the scene became quiet and submissive. The wings of her brown hair shone softly in the candlelight, and the smooth drapery of her old-fashioned gown fell in straight lines from her waist to the floor like a medieval