Long streamers of black tulle floated from a diamond soup-tureen which surmounted her hair.

Narrow puffings of white traversed her black velvet gown in all directions, making her look somewhat like a railway map, and a diamond fan-chain defined, or attempted to define, what was in its nature neither definable nor confinable, to wit, her waist, or what had been, in early youth, her waist.
The entire company was stirred by the arrival of the dowager duchess, and it undoubtedly added new eclat to what was already a fashionable event; for we counted three gentlemen who wore orders glittering on ribbons that crossed the white of their immaculate linen, and there was an Indian potentate with a jewelled turban who divided attention with the dowager duchess's diamond soup-tureen.
At twelve-thirty Lord Brighthelmston chided Celandine for flirting too much.
At twelve-forty Lady Brighthelmston reminded Violet (who was a h'orphan niece) that the beautiful being in the white uniform was not the eldest son.
At twelve-fifty there arrived an elderly gentleman, before whom the servants bowed low.

Lord Brighthelmston went to fetch Patricia, who chanced to be sitting out a dance with Terence.

The three came out on the balcony, which was deserted, in the near prospect of supper, and the personage--whom we suspected to be Patricia's godfather--took from his waistcoat pocket a string of pearls, and, clasping it round her white throat, stooped gently and kissed her forehead.
Then at one o'clock came supper.

Francesca and I had secretly provided for that contingency, and curling up on a sofa we drew toward us a little table which Dawson had spread with a galantine of chicken, some cress sandwiches, and a jug of milk.
At one-thirty we were quite overcome with sleep, and retired to our beds, where of course we speedily grew wakeful.
"It is giving a ball, not going to one, that is so exhausting!" yawned Francesca.