CHAPTER XXVI.
THE DEAR OLD COUNTRY.
he month of April, 1808, saw Polly and Molly again in London—not this time for the enjoyment of gay assemblies. Old Mrs. Fairbank, after many months of gradual failure, had passed away in an acute attack of bronchitis, and Mrs. Bryce immediately offered a home to the two girls until, at least, it might be possible to know the wishes of Colonel and Mrs. Baron. Though Mr. Bryce, as usual, only had to assent to his wife’s proposition, he did so with a heartiness not always shown towards every wish of hers.
So the Bath house with its quaint furniture was let, and in the end of March, after a few weeks given to necessary arrangements, the two girls found themselves once more under Mr. and Mrs. Bryce’s hospitable roof, in their luxurious town mansion.
A double bedroom, opening into a dainty small sitting-room or boudoir, was assigned to them, and here they loved to pass much of their time. Mrs. Bryce was now, of course, in a full swing of engagements; and she would greatly have liked to drag Polly with her wherever she went, despite the recent death of Polly’s grandmother, but for Polly’s resolute resistance.
“Well, well, well, my dear—all in good time,” Mrs. Bryce had said, after some discussion. “To be sure, the old lady was tolerable close related, and there’s no doubt your feelings does you credit; but I can assure you, ’tis time you was settled in life with a husband of your own, and a mènage, and a suitable equipage, and the rest of it. And as for Captain Ivor, I protest I’ve no sort of patience with the man. Why, ’tis eighteen months at the least since ever a word reached us of Captain Ivor and his doings; and by this time there’s no sort of question that he’s forgot all about you, and found himself a wife, and belike he’s been married this year and more past. So ’tis good time you too should forget all about him.”
Polly was thinking over these utterances, as she sat before the drawing-room fire, dressed in white muslin, with black sash and ribbons. In the first decade of the nineteenth century white muslin was counted to be the correct attire for a girl, morning, noon and evening, summer and winter, no matter what the weather might be. Polly looked rather blue and chilly, with her bare arms and shoulders, the latter covered but lightly with a thin black scarf.
She was as pretty as ever, but her colouring was less brilliant than of old, while the sweet eyes contained a touch of sadness. Molly, dressed to match, though with a good deal more of white and less of black, was busily reading to herself on the other side of the fireplace.
It was a cold April afternoon, five o’clock dinner being over. Mr. and Mrs. Bryce were out on one of their innumerable engagements. Mr. Bryce—poor man!—would greatly have preferred a quiet evening at home with the girls to the most brilliant assemblage of rank and fashion; but his relentless wife dragged him in her wake—an unwilling and helpless victim—to dinner-parties, balls, crushes, routs, innumerable.
“Molly, the Admiral is at home again. ’Tis a fit of the gout, Mrs. Peirce tells me. I saw her to-day, and she is vexed, for it makes him roar like a wild beast. And though ’tis doubtless true, as the faculty say, that the gout sets a man up again, yet the setting up is by no means pleasant. And Mrs. Peirce and the Admiral are sorely troubled about Will, for since he was taken prisoner, all that long while ago, never a word has reached them about him. O this weary war!”
Molly murmured one or two indistinct responses to the early part of Polly’s speech. The last four words made her look up. Then she stepped across, kissed Polly’s brow tenderly, and went back to her seat.
“What is it that you are reading, Molly?”
“The Edinburgh Review for this month—an article on ‘Marmion.’ And, Polly—would you think it?—the editor has no appreciation for our great poet’s genius! No, none whatever. He writes—he writes as if Mr. Scott were but a common man like any other scribbler, and not the mighty world-wide genius that he is.”
“Would that be a paper by Mr. Jeffrey? But he knows Mr. Scott. The two are friends. Can he find it in his heart to blame his friend? And what may he see to find fault with?”
“What, indeed?” echoed eager Molly. “Do but hear what rubbish the worthy man sees fit to write! ‘A good deal longer’ than the last poem. ‘More ambitious,’ ‘greater faults’ and ‘greater beauties,’ ‘less sweetness,’ ‘more vehemence,’ and ‘redundancy.’ ‘Unequal and energetic,’ ‘a general tone of spirit and animation, unchecked by timidity or affectation, and unchastened by any great delicacy of taste or elegance of fancy.’
“Oh!” gasped Molly. “And now listen again—
“‘But though we think this last romance of Mr. Scott’s about as good as the former, and allow that it affords great indications of poetical talent, we must remind our readers that we never entertained much partiality for this sort of composition, and ventured on a former occasion to regret that an author endowed with such talents should consume them in imitations of obsolete extravagance.... His genius, seconded by the omnipotence of fashion, has brought chivalry again into temporary favour. Fine ladies and gentlemen now talk indeed of donjons, keeps, tabards, scutcheons, tressures, caps of maintenance, portcullises, wimples, and we know not what besides; just as they did in the days of Dr. Darwin’s popularity of gnomes, sylphs, oxygen, gossamer, polygynia, and polyandria. That fashion, however, passed rapidly away; and Mr. Scott should take care that a different sort of pedantry does not produce the same effects.’”
“Oh!” once more cried indignant Molly, never imagining that the reviewer might perchance see with keener insight than the populace of the day, or that his judgment might be in certain respects endorsed by a later generation. “And then all fault-finding—scarce any sort of praise. Does Mr. Scott deserve such treatment? To think that any critic can be so blinded by prejudice—can so traduce the most eminent poet that ever has lived! There have been other poets, ’tis true, but none, sure, to compare with the author of ‘Marmion.’ Why, what were Homer and Milton—what are those old plays of Mr. Shakespeare’s which Mr. Bryce loves to read—compared with the writings of Mr. Scott? I have a mind never to look at the Edinburgh Review again!” Molly flung the number to the ground.
“Dr. Darwin—who died in 1802, and whose ‘Life’ was writ by Miss Anna Seward,” murmured Polly, less stirred than Molly, though she, too, ranked among the great admirers of Scott’s poetry.
“A young man desires to speak with Miss Baron.”
The butler’s solemn voice came as a surprise. They had not heard the door open.
Polly and Molly exchanged glances.
“His name, Drake?” the former asked.
“The young man declines to give his name, Miss.”
“But what does he want to see me for?”
“He says that Miss Baron will know him. He—in fact, Miss, he will not take a refusal. If it is your wish that he should be turned away——”
“Make him say what he wants,” suggested Polly.
“Is he a gentleman, Drake?” asked Molly.
“He”—and a pause—“is extremely shabby, Miss.”
“What are we to do, Polly?”
“If it is your wish that the young man should be turned away, Miss——”
Drake advanced no farther. Somebody from behind put him quietly on one side, with a gentle shove, and walked past him, straight into the room.
Drake was indignant, yet not so indignant as he ought to have been. Some vague influence, which he afterwards declared to have been an instinctive knowledge of the state of the case, withheld him from any show of wrath. The young man came quickly nearer to where the two girls sat. He was of good medium height, with a boyish look; and he wore a rough travel-stained coat, ill-made and ill-fitting; while his boots were cut through, his trousers were soiled, his hair was of an odd mottled colour, as if it had once been dark and were turning fair. But—
“You ask to know what I want,” he said in a laughing voice. A pair of large grey eyes were turned full upon them both. “I want—Molly!”
Molly did not shriek, did not even exclaim. It was Polly who cried out in astonishment. Not Molly. Nor did Molly hesitate for one quarter of a second. As she met Roy’s glance, she was in his arms, clinging to him in a voiceless rapture. Neither of the two spoke. Roy stood perfectly still, his head bent low over the faithful little sister, who held him fast in a vehement clutch of joy. Drake came some steps closer, understanding, yet scarcely able to believe what his own sight told him. Polly stood gazing at the pair, her eyes full of tears.
“I’m not fit to be touched,” Roy said at length, in an odd husky voice. “Don’t, Molly! I shall spoil your nice things. I’ve been on the tramp for days.”
She half loosened him, then returned to the charge, with another passionate clasp; and Polly’s tears now were running down her cheeks. Roy broke into a queer hard sound, not far removed from a sob, though he tried to turn it into a laugh; and he kissed and kissed again the top of Molly’s head. Her face was out of reach, buried in his rough coat. Then Polly pulled one of Molly’s hands, trying to wrench asunder that frantic hold.
“Dear Molly, you must not. Roy must be tired and hungry. Try to think of that. He wants food. And he has not said one word to me yet.” Polly dashed aside her tears, trying to smile. “How did you get away from Verdun, Roy?”
“Not Verdun. Didn’t you know I’d been sent to Bitche last spring?”
“No. Were you really? O we hear so little!”—and a sigh came from Polly’s heart, while Molly, having pulled Roy into a chair, knelt by his side, gazing with eyes of rapt delight in his face.
“It’s an awful place. I got away from there—I’ll tell you all about it by-and-by. It’s all right now—now I’m back in old England. Do you know, when first I got on shore, I just went down on my knees, and kissed the ground. Drake, you didn’t know me! For shame. But I was sure Miss Molly would.”
“I don’t know as I didn’t, sir, for all you’re so growed and altered. I couldn’t turn you away, and that’s a fact—though it seemed like as if I’d ought. And I did feel queer-like and no mistake, when I see you a-looking at me, sir; only, begging your pardon, sir, you did speak so short——”
“I’m sorry; but I didn’t mean to be found out by anybody first except by Miss Molly. Dear little Moll!”—as she stooped to kiss the back of his brown hand. “No, no, you mustn’t do that. I say, Drake, I wonder if you can find anything respectable for me to wear. These things were given to me at a farmhouse in France, and they were old to begin with. And I’ve had to get to London on foot, because I’d no money, though people have given me many a lift, and food as well. But couldn’t you make me look a bit decent, before Mr. and Mrs. Bryce come home?”
Drake made no difficulty at all about the matter, and he and Roy, after a few more explanations, went off together. Roy had seen in an old newspaper, since landing on the east coast, the mention of Mrs. Fairbank’s death, and he had at once decided to find his way straight to the house of Mr. Bryce, secure of learning there what might have become of Polly and Molly. He had hardly felt surprise, on arrival, to learn that both the girls were within. Another sadder duty would lie before him soon—to see Admiral and Mrs. Peirce, and to tell them the story of little Will. But his first aim had been to reach Molly.
As the two disappeared, Molly flung herself on the rug, with her face on Polly’s knee.
“O to think that I have my own own Roy again!” she whispered.
“Dear Molly, ’tis indeed something to be thankful for.”
A tear splashed on Molly’s cheek, and she looked up with startled eyes.
“Ah—I have forgot! If Denham could but have come with Roy! Then we should both be happy; we should want nothing. Except my papa and my mamma to return.”
Another tear fell.
“But we will ask Roy, and he will tell us about Denham. Perhaps he will bring you a message from him.”
“No,” Polly answered. “Roy comes from Bitche—not from Verdun. Did you not hear? ’Tis long since he saw them. And, Molly, you must not ask.”
“Not ask!”
“No, not for me. Nothing for me! How can I tell now—so long as it is since any letter came? And no message—none at all—in the last that did come. Do you not see?”
“You mean——But, Polly, you do not think Denham has changed towards you! O sure he cannot have done so.”
“I cannot tell. It may be. I am a woman, dear, and I may not be sure, without reason. In my heart, I think I do trust him. And if Roy tells—but you must not ask for me.”
“Not even how Denham is?”
“Yes—that, for yourself. But nothing for me.”
A very different Roy soon appeared, dressed in a cast-off suit of Mr. Bryce’s, which, though by no means a perfect fit, since Roy was very markedly the taller, yet shone by comparison with what he had worn before. Roy had grown brown during his prolonged wanderings; and the dye, which it had been thought advisable to keep going so long as he remained on French soil, was still en evidence. But the face and the grey eyes were quite unmistakable. They had been unmistakable to Molly from the earliest moment.
An abundant dinner, hastily heated and brought together, awaited him soon in the dining-room; and Roy confessed to a “wolfish” appetite. Molly said nothing then in allusion to Ivor. She knew that Polly would wish the subject to be avoided while Drake was present; and Drake took care to be present throughout the meal, that he might not lose a word of Roy’s narration of his escape from Bitche and his journey through France. That any Frenchman should have acted as Jean had acted, came as a positive shock to the insular prejudices of the old butler. Drake arrived at a solemn conclusion, as he listened, that some among those Mounseers over the water were not perhaps altogether bad, even though they lacked the advantages of an English “eddication.”
But when dinner was over, when Roy’s wants were satisfied, and when the three were together in the drawing-room, Roy in a comfortable chair, with Molly close to his side, Polly herself remarked quietly,—
“Now Roy will tell us about them all at Verdun.”
“Haven’t seen ’em lately, you know, Polly. I wish I had. The latest news I can give you is nearly a year old. No, not quite the latest, but——Well, I left my father and mother all right at Verdun, last spring. Not much less than a year. Denham had been away at Valenciennes for eighteen months. You must have heard about that.”
“There was a mention in one letter of his being there. A letter from your mother, which had been long on its road. But no explanation. We thought he had perhaps gone thither for a few weeks.”
“Eighteen months. Ordered off for nothing, and brought back in the same fashion. He arrived at Verdun the day before I broke that bust of the Emperor, and got myself into trouble. You know—I told you in the other room. I suppose—” and Roy laughed—“I suppose it was the delight of having him back which made me a trifle crazy.”
“Sounds like Roy!” whispered Molly. “Then you have not seen anything of Denham for an age?” This was what she rightly judged that Polly was longing to have said.
“Pretty near two years and a half—except that one day.”
“And he and they didn’t know you would be coming home. So you have no messages for us?”
“No, of course they didn’t. The best they could hope for was that I might be sent back to Verdun.”
“And they were all quite well?” Polly asked this.
Roy was looking intently at Polly. She flushed, and put up one hand to shield her face.
“Yes—I know—” Roy said, as if answering a remark. “Of course you’d like to hear of anything he had said. I’m trying to remember. Somehow, I don’t think——”
“He did not speak of any of us, you mean—that one day.” There was a strained composure in Polly’s manner.
Roy was trying still to conjure up the past.
“Such a lot happened just then, and I’ve gone through so much since! But I fancy I should remember, if he had said anything particular. You see, he had walked the whole way from Valenciennes to Verdun, when he was only half over an illness, giving up his horse to a young fellow who was worse than himself; or at all events Den thought him worse. And he was desperately done up. I never saw anyone look more ill than he did, the day he came in.”
Polly made a movement of surprise. “Denham!” she said incredulously. “Why—he never found anything too much for him.”
Molly put an unfortunate question. “Do you mean that he wasn’t able to talk?”
“Well, no, I don’t mean that. We did talk a good deal that evening; much more than Den was fit for. And there was a letter from—from her—” in a lower voice. “There was a letter to my father, which had come not long before. She said in it how well Polly was looking. I read the letter aloud to Den, but I don’t think he said much. He was too thoroughly dead-beat to do more than answer questions. My mother said something, I remember, about there being letters from everybody—Polly as well—most likely on the road. I don’t think Denham said anything even then—except that he thought the letter I had read ought to be burnt. I don’t believe it ever was, by-the-by. So much happened afterwards.”
“And the very next day—was it?—you were taken off by those horrible gendarmes,” added Molly.
Polly had turned her face away. Roy gave her a glance, then whispered—
“I say, Molly, one minute! I want a word with her.”
Molly obediently fled, and she had seldom done a harder thing in her whole life.
Roy walked across the rug, and bent over Polly. As he had expected, there were tears upon her cheek.
“Polly, you’ll let me speak—will you? I want you to understand.”
A hasty movement disposed of the tears, and she turned a quiet face towards him.
“I think I do understand.”
“Den is not the man to change.”
“Many men do change—so easily.”
“Not Denham. That’s not his sort.”
She smiled a little.
“My dear Roy, you have not seen him even—except that one day—since—how long ago?”
“Spring of 1805.”
“And you were then—how old?”
“Yes, I know all that: but boys have eyes, as well as girls. And I tell you, Polly, I know Denham. That year and a half, before he went to Valenciennes, he and I were always together. Lessons and playtime, we were hardly ever apart. And I got to know him, as—well, as nobody else does. No, not you!”
She rested her chin on one hand, the soft eyes questioning Roy.
“Go on,” she whispered.
“I know Den, and because I know him, I can tell you that he has not altered, and that he won’t alter. It wouldn’t be like him; it isn’t in him; he is not that sort. It doesn’t make a grain of difference whether he talked or didn’t talk of you that day. He was too ill—and Den doesn’t ever talk much of the things he cares most about. You ought to know what he feels about Sir John Moore, for instance; and yet how few would ever guess it! Except when he is speaking quietly alone with you, or with Jack or me, does he ever say a great deal about Moore? It isn’t his way! And has he ever changed in that direction? No, nor ever will. If he didn’t see Sir John for twenty years, it would make never a grain of difference.”
“He has a warm advocate in you.”
“Because I know what he is—because he is the best friend I ever had or ever could have. He never did talk much about you, Polly, that year and a half that we were always together. And I was only a boy, but all the same I understood. If anybody ever spoke your name, or anything to do with you came up—didn’t I see his look? Didn’t I know it? Just as I know the look in his face when he hears anything of Sir John Moore.”
Polly brushed her hand over wet eyes.
“Sometimes I used to know that he was thinking of you all day long. How did I know? I can’t tell. How does anybody know? It was just as if ‘Polly’ was writ large upon his face. I never could tell what made him so—only for hours he seemed to be away from us all; and ’twas little good for me to talk, for he heard scarce anything I might say.”
Roy’s coat-sleeve received a little squeeze.
“But—so long ago!”
“What does that matter? I’ve told you enough, and you ought to be able to feel sure of him. I’m not making up. Den is one of the truest and best fellows that ever lived; and when he comes home, you’ll see—you will see for yourself.”
She bent towards him.
“Thank you, Roy! At the least, I can promise one thing—that I will wait to see!”
(To be continued.)
[HOUSEHOLD HINTS.]
To place a piece of oil-cloth or American baize over the whole or part of the kitchen table is a very tidy plan and saves constant scrubbing of the table.
Powdered rotten stone moistened with a little paraffin, cleans brass-work beautifully, after it has been washed with soap and water, and at the end rubbed with a clean leather.
Bread-pans and cheese-pans should be carefully wiped out every other day, and any pieces of broken bread not left in the pan, but put on a dish or plate till it is decided what shall be done with them.
Sofa covers and rugs should be frequently lifted and shaken in summer to find out if there are any moths underneath. Spare blankets should also be inspected, and fur cloaks and trimmings should be well shaken and lightly beaten occasionally.
All green vegetables should be carefully washed with a little salt and water to free them from the insects that find a home in them, otherwise one may have unpleasant experiences at the dinner-table.
[FROCKS FOR TO-MORROW.]
By “THE LADY DRESSMAKER.”
One of the special colours of the coming season is said to be yellow, but no exact shade is quoted, and so I had better warn my readers and tell them that there are yellows and yellows, and some of them are calculated to make one look—dreadful! I think a lemon yellow is, as a rule, the safest shade of all.
White gowns are in preparation, and, so far as I can see, will be quite as much worn as they were last year by everyone; and really they seem universally becoming.
Black skirts are no longer correct when worn with light-coloured blouses. There should always be a repetition of the colour of the skirt in the blouse. For instance, the skirt being of blue cloth, the blouse should repeat the blue, mixed with any other hue you may select.
I do not see any sign of that disappearance of the blouse which has been so often threatened; but I see that the advent of the tight-fitting small coat may render them unnecessary, as the small coats are made in such a dressy style, with fronts of lace, and pretty decorations, so that they take the place of a bodice.
FOUR SPRING GOWNS.
There is also a very decided advance in the popularity of the Princess dress. Indeed, so tight-fitting are the present styles, that we might really just as well adopt it, for we are wearing what is next akin. In evening gowns there is a great liking for it, and a desire to do away with the waist-band that has been worn so long; and as we must be slim and slight this year, if we are to be at all in the fashion, so we shall see that all styles will tend to help this one. What a sad thing for the extremely stout! But I think it is in reality a good thing that women and men should never allow themselves to become so, for if we think the matter over seriously, we shall soon arrive at the conclusion that it spoils our usefulness both to ourselves and to others, and makes our days a burden. So if Dame Fashion steps in to decree against it, we may hail her interposition as a blessing indeed.
The “tunic” drapery is the new note of all the spring skirts, and really so tight-fitting are all of them, that we wonder how we are going to sit down! In Paris this form of trimming has been most popular, and there the blouse and skirt are arranged so as to look exactly like a polonaise.
The new toques are larger than those of last year, and much wider. They generally should match the colour of the gown with which they are worn. The trimmings are put on both in front and on the left side, and consist of ostrich tips, chou bows, or rosettes. It is said that gold ornaments are to take the place of paste ones in all the hats of next season; and I notice that steel buttons are more used than anything else for gowns and blouses.
The edges of so many of the new gowns are cut in scallops that this mode of decoration seems to be quite one of the fashions of the year, and a glance at the drawings for the month shows how extremely short the coats have become. That called “Four Spring Gowns” shows some of the prevailing modes with great accuracy. The figure on the extreme left wears a cloth Princess gown made up with a tartan velvet yoke, sleeves, and panels. The colour of the cloth was blue, and the tartan was one of the blue and green ones, with a tiny red line. The front is decorated with embroidery. The next figure wears a velvet or cloth gown of black, with a coat scalloped and braided. The collar is of white silk embroidered with black; hat of velvet, with white silk and white feathers. Third figure wears a gown of sage-green cloth, trimmed with a green silk check and bands of green velvet, front of chiffon and white silk. The seated figure wears a plain walking gown of grey cloth; the bodice is a tight-fitting one, with a very short basque; and the whole is edged with rows of machine stitching on the bodice and skirt.
TEA-GOWN FOR A YOUNG LADY.
There is a great liking this spring for shepherds’ plaid, and it seems likely to be used for gowns and blouses as well as capes. Our sketch shows a tailor-made gown, which is trimmed with black braid, and has one of the shaped flounces on the skirt. The collar is lined with white silk, and there is a front of tucked silk-muslin, and a tie and bow of the same. The hat is of white straw, and is trimmed with white plush, black velvet, and black and white feathers. Veil of white, with black dots.
TAILOR-MADE GOWN OF SHEPHERD’S PLAID.
The second figure in this illustration wears a charming costume of pale grey cloth which shows the manner in which braid is put on and mingled with embroidery. The braid in this case is of white silk; the edges of both coat and epaulettes are scalloped; and the braiding is arranged in a pointed shape on the skirt. The toque is a very pretty one of a grey shade to match the gown; and is of velvet, ornamented with a wreath of green leaves and an arrangement of white wings.
It is sometimes useful to know how to make a tea-gown for a young lady which will be useful and pretty, and youthful enough in its style for the years of its wearer. The tea-gown illustrated is of black silk, and is cut very plainly. It opens over a skirt of white satin, with a vest of the same. This last is covered with white net with jet embroidery. There is a flounce of the silk on either side of the front, which is lined with white satin, and the high collar is lined with the same.
The lady in out-of-door costume who stands beside her is dressed in a dark blue cashmere or cloth gown, scalloped and trimmed with white braid, a hat of fancy straw, with pink roses and quills.
I have no doubt that many people are wondering whether capes are going to be worn still, and how they will be made; so I must proceed to answer that question now. The new capes are much like the best winter ones have been, cut very round in front, and scant as to fulness, rather longer too than they have been worn at the back, and with the same very wide and full flounce surrounding them. There are also some very short ones, but just now it is said to be too soon to speak of capes, or indeed is there much known about purely summer things, though I hear that thin materials will be worn over silk as much as they were last year, and some new materials which combine the thin and the thick together have been brought out; they are woven together making one material. But I do not know whether they will be popular, and most people like the silk under-gown and its pleasant rustle. The effort to deprive us of them resulted in failure, and nun’s veiling and all soft linings were pronounced a failure.
Amongst other novelties, there is a new shape of Tam-o’-Shanter, which has a kind of peak added to it in front, rather after the manner of a jockey’s cap. This makes them far more becoming, as well as more serviceable in all weathers, and in every way they look more close-fitting than of yore. This new Tam has been worn during the last winter at many of the county meets, accompanied by a long tight-fitting coat. A bright red, a light mauve, and a pretty stone colour have all been seen, and very well and suitable they looked. There has been a universal tendency to wear light-hued cloth this season, and nearly every shade of red and scarlet.
I suppose everyone has seen by the papers that the latest idea at weddings has been to have the wedding breakfast in the train which conveyed the bride and groom, as well as the whole wedding party, to London from the country town which had been the scene of the marriage. This fashion will, of course, be reserved for millionaires only, but as straws show how the wind blows, at several recent marriages the newly-wedded pair have made their escape from the door of the church, and there has been no wedding reception of any kind. So, perhaps, even our very modified form of wedding entertainment will be reduced still further, and end off at the church.
The going-away gown at all the recent smart weddings seems to have been invariably made of cloth; roan-colour, petunia, light grey, turquoise blue, dark and light mauve, and heliotrope are all colours that have been seen at recent marriages in good society. The first-named was lined with a shot-blue glacé silk, and was made with a bodice which had a full vest of cream-coloured lace and revers of dark blue velvet. The dress of petunia cloth had a coat of petunia velvet, slashed with mauve; and as a rule gowns of pale grey are trimmed with grey velvet of a darker shade, with a hat to match. The turquoise blue was an embroidered gown with chenille and silk, and was relieved by cream-coloured lace and a collar. All of these gowns will be useful afterwards, and were none of them too grand for daily life. This is a point that many girls with a limited allowance have to think of, as the going-away gown often has to become the walking and visiting dress of the future days. So it must be chosen with deliberation and care.
I hear that in Paris the popular gown for the early spring for ordinary wear will be black serge; this is made as a coat or Directoire coat bodice, braided or not as is preferred, in fact made in any way that seems suitable to everyday use. The best gown as I have said is of some light-hued cloth, and for best summer wear the thin grenadines over silk are most fashionable as well as the most useful of dresses. So there is no doubt as to the gowns that will be wanted. The next thing to consider is what are the requirements of our own wardrobes, and what can we do without, alter, or purchase for the coming season.
[ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.]
By JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters Three,” etc.