But I care myself if I tell fibs; I never tell them unless there's
something rather good to be gained. I don't see what's to be gained
with you- especially as you wouldn't believe me. I don't make
professions any more than I make paper flowers or flouncey
lampshades-I don't know how. My lampshades would be sure to take fire,
my roses and my fibs to be larger than life. I'm very glad for my
own sake that you're to marry Osmond; but I won't pretend I'm glad for
yours. You're very brilliant-you know that's the way you're always
spoken of; you're an heiress and very good-looking and original, not
banal; so it's a good thing to have you in the family. Our family's
very good, you know; Osmond will have told you that; and my mother was
rather distinguished-she was called the American Corinne. But we're
dreadfully fallen, I think, and perhaps you'll pick us up. I've
great confidence in you; there are ever so many things I want to
talk to you about. I never congratulate any girl on marrying; I
think they ought to make it somehow not quite so awful a steel trap. I
suppose Pansy oughtn't to hear all this; but that's what she has
come to me for-to acquire the tone of society.
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