“Now, now, Ava, you couldn’t possibly mean it. Not really?” Enid says as she raises her tea biscuit from the dainty ivory dish.

 

“I’m quite sure that I do, my dear girl.”

 

“But what must father think? The scandal of it!”

 

Ava presses her pink-dusted lips to the corner of a pale embroidered napkin; with each thoughtful dab, they linger against the soft cloth like the kisses of a timid lover. In time, she parts them just to say:

 

“Nonsense.”

 

She then reclines against the brocade cushions with luxurious indifference to how it gathers her silken dress above the knee; one hand snakes her slim, alabaster arm along the back of the sofa in careless elegance as the other entangles its long fingers in her draping necklace. The pearly beads catch the afternoon light peering in through the window, clacking musically as they cascade in and out of that delicate, playful palm.

 

In a mixture of awe and foreboding, Enid loses her tongue and drops her eyes instead to the intricate blooms and swirls of the carpet beneath her pretty feet. She seeks to occupy her mouth with something less distasteful than her sister’s manners, lifting her gaze again to the dish to pluck another biscuit from the creamy lacework of its textured surface, its glossy grace no less exquisite for the crumbs.