“Mon petit, I want your advice——”
“What about?”
After spending an unconscionable time arranging his tie in front of the glass, and lighting a cigarette, he complacently sat watching her as she flitted about the room in a costume that exaggerated so prettily all that was feminine in her exceedingly feminine body. He did not know whether to think her graceful or ridiculous. He did not know whether he ought to think such things really unbeautiful, or whether he should experience some slight artistic pleasure in beholding them. His doubt arose from the recollection of a long discussion which had taken place the winter before in the smoking-room at his father’s house, between two old gallants, M. de Terremondre, who could think of nothing more adorable than a pretty woman in her knickers and stays, and Paul Flin, who, on the contrary, pitied a woman for her ungraceful appearance at this particular stage of her toilet. Philippe had followed this entertaining discussion, and could not make up his mind which of the two was right. Terremondre was a man of experience, but he was old-fashioned and too artistic. Paul Flin was considered less clever, but very smart. Philippe’s natural malevolence and elective affinities were making him incline to the latter’s theory when Madame de Gromance put on her pink silk petticoat.
“Mon petit, do advise me. This year fur dresses are all the rage, but what do you say to a red cloth dress—a rich red, say ruby—a fur coat and fur toque with a bunch of Parma violets?”
He did not speak, and only betrayed his thought by a nod of the head. At last he opened his mouth, whence issued, instead of words, the smoke of his cigarette.
Deep in her dream she continued:
“With buttons of old paste, very narrow sleeves and a tight skirt.”
He spoke at last:
“A tight skirt—yes, that would be all right.”
Then she remembered that he knew nothing about skirts or bodices. An idea flashed into her mind and matured.