"Ah! ah!" he said, "there is Dumas going to his first communion again, only he has changed his taper."
This epigram hit me straight to the heart; I went white, and almost dropped my companion's arm. She saw what was my trouble, no doubt, for she said, pretending she had not heard:
"Who is the young man who has just passed us?"
"He is a certain M. Miaud," I replied, "who is employed at the workhouse."
I must confess I dwelt on these last words with delight, hoping they might modify the good opinion my lovely companion seemed immediately to have formed of this dandy.
"Ah! how strange!" she said; "I should have taken him for a Parisian."
"By what?" I asked.
"By his style of dress."
I am sure the arrow was not shot intentionally, but, like Parthian barbed arrows, it went right to the depths of my heart, none the less.
"His style of dress!" So dress was a most important matter; by its means and in proportion to its good or bad taste, people could at the first glance at a man form an idea of his intelligence, his mind, or his heart.