better taste.

CRAMPTON. Oh, yes: of course you say so.

MRS. CLANDON. William: you see a great deal of good English society.
Are my children overdressed?

WAITER (reassuringly). Oh, dear, no, ma'am. (Persuasively.) Oh,
no, sir, not at all. A little pretty and tasty no doubt; but very
choice and classy---very genteel and high toned indeed. Might be the
son and daughter of a Dean, sir, I assure you, sir. You have only to
look at them, sir, to--- (At this moment a harlequin and columbine,
dancing to the music of the band in the garden, which has just reached
the coda of a waltz, whirl one another into the room. The harlequin's
dress is made of lozenges, an inch square, of turquoise blue silk and
gold alternately. His hat is gilt and his mask turned up. The
columbine's petticoats are the epitome of a harvest field, golden orange
and poppy crimson, with a tiny velvet jacket for the poppy stamens.
They pass, an exquisite and dazzling apparition, between McComas and
Bohun, and then back in a circle to the end of the table, where, as the
final chord of the waltz is struck, they make a tableau in the middle of
the company, the harlequin down on his left knee, and the columbine
standing on his right knee, with her arms curved over her head. Unlike
their dancing, which is charmingly graceful, their attitudinizing is
hardly a success, and threatens to end in a catastrophe.)

THE COLUMBINE (screaming). Lift me down, somebody: I'm going to
fall. Papa: lift me down.

CRAMPTON (anxiously running to her and taking her hands). My child!