You either know them, or you don't.

A sort of instinct for dress, I suppose." Jean was sitting in Pamela's bedroom.

Pamela's bedroom it was now, certainly not Bella Bathgate's.
The swinging looking-glass had been replaced by one which, according to Pamela, was at least truthful.

"The other one," she complained, "made me look pale green and drowned." A cloth of fine linen and lace covered the toilet-table which was spread with brushes and boxes in tortoiseshell and gold, quaint-shaped bottles for scent, and roses in a tall glass.
A jewel-box stood open and Pamela was pulling out earrings and necklaces, rings and brooches for Jean's amusement.
"Most of my things are at the bank," Pamela was saying as she held up a pair of Spanish earrings made of rows of pearls.

"They generally are there, for I don't care a bit about ordinary jewels.