It was Sally, the pretty American, her old fellow-student, Martha was talking to — and all the more willingly because Sally never had, and didn't now, cast an eye at a painting when she could look at a hat.
'Honey, yours — !' began Sally, before words failed her. (Her own general appearance was a masterpiece of throw-away elegance: amber wild silk cut like a trench-coat, worn with fifty cents' worth of gilt beads. Of course her shoes has cost as many dollars, and the twist of velvet on her head considerably more, — Le maitre, even as he held himself ready to intervene, alerted a photographer. 'And didn't you ever get that frock I sent you,' wailed Sally, 'for just such an occasion as this? Mother Bunch, you're hopeless!'
Martha, hearing her old studio nickname, smiled. (The photographer captured it: Martha's smile, rare as Queen Victoria's, and as memorable.)
from Martha, Eric and George, by Margery Sharp
I love it when the two books I am reading collide. :)