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Updated: June 27, 2025
Wolfstein and Miss Schley. She greeted them with a nod that was more gay and friendly than her usual salutations to women, which often lacked bonhomie. Mrs. Wolfstein's too expressive face lit up. "The sensation is complete!" she exclaimed loudly.
Behind them she saw a compact mass of acquaintances: Lady Cardington sitting with Sir Donald and looking terribly sad, even self-conscious, yet eager; Mrs. Wolfstein with Mr. Laycock; Mr. Bry, his eyeglass fixed, a white carnation in his coat; Lady Manby laughing with a fat old man who wore a fez, and many others.
"When I speak in general terms of anything I always except London." "Why?" said Sally Perceval. "Because it's no more natural, no more central, no more in line with the truth of things than you are, Sally." "But, my dear, you surely aren't a belated follower of Tolstoi!" cried Mrs. Wolfstein. "You don't want us all to live like day labourers."
"I don't want anybody to do anything, but if happiness is to be taught it must not be by a man or by a Londoner." "I had no idea you had been caught by the cult of simplicity," said Mrs. Wolfstein. "But you are so clever. You reveal your dislikes but conceal your preferences. Most women think that if they only conceal their dislikes they are quite perfectly subtle."
Henry Wolfstein, the woman with the red fan. He uttered his remarks authoritatively in a slow and languid voice, looking at the pointed toes of his shoes. Conversation became general. Robin Pierce, the tall young man, stood alone for a few minutes.
"Oh, that's improper but not brilliant," said Mrs. Wolfstein. "The American critics says it's beneath contempt." "But not beneath popularity, I suppose?" said Lady Holme. "No, she's enormously popular. Newspaper notices don't matter to Pimpernel. Are you going to ask her to your house? You might. She's longing to come. Everybody else has, and she knew you first."
Subtle people are always peppering their little pockets and thinking nobody sees them." "And lots of people don't," said Mrs. Wolfstein. "The vices are divinely comic," continued Lady Manby, looking every moment more like a teapot. "I think it's such a mercy. Fancy what a lot of fun we should lose if there were no drunkards, for instance!" Lady Cardington looked shocked.
One never knows the sort of impression one produces on the world. I think Miss Schley a very attractive little creature, and as to her social gifts, I bow to them." "But she has none," cried Mrs. Wolfstein, who was one of those who had drawn Lady Holme's attention to the likeness. "How can you say so? Everyone is at her feet." "Her feet, perhaps. They are lovely. But she has no gifts.
It was a pretty speaking voice, clear and youthful, with a choir-boyish sound in it, and remarkably free from nasal twang, but it was not a lady's voice. It sounded like the frontispiece of a summer number become articulate. Mrs. Wolfstein began to introduce Miss Schley to her guests, none of whom, it seemed, knew her.
Wolfstein lifted large eyebrows over it, and remarked to Henry, in exceptionally guttural German: "If this goes on Pimpernel's imitation will soon be completely out of date." To be out of date in Mrs. Wolfstein's opinion was to be irremediably damned.
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