"It is the prettiest dress I have." Fulvia spoke composedly, looking at herself in the pier-glass. The colour of her costume, dark navy-blue, with portions of a lighter shade, was suitable for any season; and the material though really a washing fabric, did not look like it. Fulvia knew this to be a becoming dress. It had been made in particularly graceful style by a London dressmaker, and fitted beautifully, showing her figure to the best advantage; while the colour harmonised well with her reddish hair. Several people had assured her that in this dress she looked "quite handsome."
Some impulse came over her to don it, when making ready for the boat trip; she could hardly have told why. Of course the real wish was a desire to look well in Nigel's eyes, and of course this was the last admission she would have made even to herself. But she obeyed the impulse. Then Daisy came in, and remonstrated.
"Nobody would take it for a summer dress, and I like the coolness. It is so warm this morning—quite oppressive. I feel as if I could hardly breathe. Besides, I don't mind if this gets splashed. My nice serge might be spoilt."
"Why don't you put on your old brown thing? Mr. Carden-Cox wouldn't care."
"I detest myself in that brown. It makes me hideous."
"Well, what matter? Nobody would mind. There 'll be nobody to see, who signifies; only Nigel and a few others."
"I should mind. I like to look respectable."
"You'll take cold."
"As if I ever did! Besides, I have plenty underneath the dress to keep me warm."
"Then you'll wear your fur cloak, I suppose?"