you were married to
Cyril or any one. Frenchmen and Italians always want their love-making
or flirtations to have something in it of the nature of a _score_. They
love scoring off a third person, whoever it may be,--whether it's their
friend's wife, or their wife's friend, or anything."

"They're not sincere, then?"

"Don't be silly. If they weren't sincere, why are there nothing but
unwritten-law crimes all over France and Italy? And why do Parisians
think and talk of ... nothing else! They're _sincere_ all right: it's
their hobby. Italians, of course, are more jealous and faithful, and
Parisians are frightfully vain--there's a good deal of a sort of
snobbism about it. They love to show off. That's why they're so keen on
dress."

"Do you think," said Daphne, with sudden anxiety, "that if you don't
dress to perfection you can't keep a man's love? I _do_ hope not! I mean
because when I'm married to Cyril I shan't be able to afford to wear
anything at all, except a clean blouse which I shall have to iron out
myself, like in _Hearth and Home_."

Valentia shook her head.

"Dressing to perfection doesn't make men love you, silly. It only makes
women hate you. And I never have yet seen the advantage of that."

"Oh, then, do Parisians want other women to hate you?" asked Daphne. Her
sister hesitated.

"Sometimes. Very often they don't. They want you to be admired by other
people, whoever they are, men or women. But in Paris dress counts in a
different sort of way--it means more--it stands for more. Oh, don't
bother!"

"Well, give me a straightforward Englishman!" exclaimed Daphne.

"Yes, indeed!" replied Val. "That Belgian Herr, anyhow, doesn't count. I
can't think why Mrs. Preb. and Miss Campbell are so much in love with
him."

"Isn't it funny? Why do you think it is, Val?"

"Perhaps it's because he's a man. You see, they're accustomed to
curates."

CHAPTER XXXI

AT EDGWARE

Miss Brill had twisted up her hair and put on her Sunday dress to
receive Vaughan.

To harmonise with the Dickens's garden it ought to have been white
muslin with flounces and a pink sash. But it was a quite long, dark blue
Liberty satin, made by a smart dressmaker in the Finchley Road. It had a
high collar, an Empire waist, and gathers.

Her mother was delighted with it. Gladys had not been quite satisfied
herself, and had tried to tie it in round the ankles with concealed
string, to make it look more like a nobble skirt,