Their mistresses met in one another's bedrooms for mysterious confabs over head-dress and coiffure, lace scarf, and petticoat.
As for the men, they surreptitiously tried on their embroidered coats and breeches, admired themselves in secrecy, and let it go at that, returning with embarrassed relief to cards, tennis, and the various forms of amiable idleness to which they were accustomed.

Only Englishmen can masquerade seriously.
Later, however, the men were compelled to pay some semblance of attention to the general preparations, assemble their foot-gear, head-gear, stars, orders, sashes, swords, and try them on for Duane Mallett--to that young man's unconcealed dissatisfaction.
"You certainly resemble a scratch opera chorus," he observed after passing in review the sheepish line-up in his room.

"Delancy, you're the limit as a Black Mousquetier--and, by the way, there weren't any in the reign of Louis XVI, so perhaps that evens up matters.

Dysart is the only man who looks the real thing--or would if he'd remove that monocle.

As for Bunny and the Pink 'un, they ought to be in vaudeville singing la-la-la." "That's really a compliment to our legs," observed Reggie Wye to Bunbury Gray, flourishing his property sword and gracefully performing a _pas seul a la Genee_.
Dysart, who had been sullen all day, regarded them morosely.
Scott Seagrave, in his conventional abbe's costume of black and white, excessively bored, stood by the window trying to catch a glimpse of the lake to see whether any decent fish were breaking, while Scott walked around him critically, not much edified by his costume or the way he wore it.
"You're a sad and self-conscious-looking bunch," he concluded.