And between the two, what a long stretch of vacuity! How dreary and trivial these people were! Lily reviewed them with a scornful impatience: Carry Fisher, with her shoulders, her eyes, her divorces, her general air of embodying a "spicy paragraph"; young Silverton, who had meant to live on proof-reading and write an epic, and who now lived on his friends and had become critical of truffles; Alice Wetherall, an animated visiting-list, whose most fervid convictions turned on the wording of invitations and the engraving of dinner-cards; Wetherall, with his perpetual nervous nod of acquiescence, his air of agreeing with people before he knew what they were saying; Jack Stepney, with his confident smile and anxious eyes, half way between the sheriff and an heiress; Gwen Van Osburgh, with all the guileless confidence of a young girl who has always been told that there is no one richer than her father.
Lily smiled at her classification of her friends.

How different they had seemed to her a few hours ago! Then they had symbolized what she was gaining, now they stood for what she was giving up.

That very afternoon they had seemed full of brilliant qualities; now she saw that they were merely dull in a loud way.

Under the glitter of their opportunities she saw the poverty of their achievement.

It was not that she wanted them to be more disinterested; but she would have liked them to be more picturesque.