Previously in this series.
You are being talked about. It is very disagreeable.
You are not being talked about. It is even more disagreeable.
You have sinned, and sinned greatly in the eyes of the world, out of a most desperate love.
No matter how dreadful the occasion, you manage to keep your cuffs un-buttered and your cravat un-spoilt. To be bankrupt of morals is forgivable, but to be bankrupt of style is not.
You are a woman who grows to become like her mother, or you are a man who does not.
Your family is dysfunctional in the extreme. You don’t even know the names of half your relations, which does not render them very relatable.
Your butler lies for you with delightful eloquence.
Your husband has violated the strict moral code around which you have organized your life. In despair, you turn to your closest male friend, who had earlier urged you to come to him if ever you needed a friend. He stops contemplating his buttonhole long enough to be witty at inopportune moments. This does not help you at all.
A woman of ill repute has hidden herself in the rooms of a noted dandy. You have never heard of anything so shocking.
You speak exclusively in bon mots and aphorisms.
You have never known one or both of your parents, but through a series of mishaps, at least one of them reappears.
You know the price of everything, and the value of nothing.
You place a high value on draperies of all sorts.
Most gentlemen you meet are neither gentle nor men. They like to read privately inscribed cigarette cases. The modern era is so dreadfully bankrupt of manners.
You are surprisingly and subtly Keen on Jesus.
“The purification of love is sacrifice,” you announce in a drawing room, and are met with compliments and facile witticisms, rather than people looking at you oddly and asking if you are drunk.
You like to talk idly about the modern marriage and the modern husband over the tea things.
Someone has described a ball guest to you by comparing them to an objet d’arte, complete with untranslated French.
You’d rather face anything than the censure of the world, and yet, that is exactly what you are forced to do.
There are only two things in the world. One is bad, but the other is worse.
You can resist anything but temptation.
Your greatest consolation is pleasure.
Any sin can be absolved by a good dressmaker.
You are a young woman and declare yourself something of a Puritan, despite the fact that you are enormously wealthy, mention at least three parties you have recently attended, and have changed into many fancy ball gowns already.
A member of the aristocracy has condescended to give you some advice.
You become easily distracted by witty conversation.
You are an older woman with not just a past, but several.
Your love has been soiled, and the object symbolizing it tainted, quite tainted!
You like nothing better than a paradox.
You make it a rule to talk only with perfectly charming people.
You have just met the most perfect Gorgon! You’re not entirely sure what a Gorgon is, but you are quite sure the lady is one.
A well-dressed, upper-class woman has danced, which has resulted in a baffling series of consequences.
You would call a spade a spade if you had ever actually seen a spade in your life.
You know that in matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity, is the vital thing.
Someone has complimented your beauty with an elaborate and somewhat disturbing animalistic metaphor. You’re not entirely sure how to respond.
You always pass on good advice. If it really is good, you cannot possibly use it yourself; you must reserve it for guests.
You are a political man engaged in a rather complicated relationship with your much older mentor. Much can be read into his interest in you.
There are distinct social possibilities in your profile.
You love to talk of nothing. It is the only thing you know anything about.
Everyone is sitting in the gutter, but you are looking at the stars.
The only thing you really know about life is that, no matter the meaning of the next, love is the meaning of this one.