The sun shines over London on a spring afternoon. The young starlet, fresh from yet another rehearsal at the Savoy, strolls down the relatively quiet street, stopping to look in every shop window. Her eye is caught by a fashionable display of new hats—in the latest, fitting cloche style worn by all the Parisian models, of course.

She turns around, not caring who or what is in her vicinity as she enquires, her voice high, bold and bell-like, with just a touch of coquettishness and a diction that could only have been learnt in an opera company that thinks it's still in the previous century.

This thing would become me splendidly, don't you think, dear?