THE LADY IN ROUGE, By W. E. P. French
“Pretty woman! That's just like a man. Pretty chromo, you mean, Tom.”
“Well,” in a hearty, pleasant voice, “maybe you are the better judge; but I don't believe she's 'made up,' and if I wasn't the most henpecked man on earth I'd say she was the loveliest creature I ever saw. As for her hair, it's——”
“Blondined! And so utterly impossible in color that it couldn't for a moment fool anybody but a man,” interrupted the first speaker, with deliciously spiteful emphasis on the very common noun man.
“Eyebrows stencilled, eyelashes darkened; lips, ears and finger tips tinged with carmine—don't you know? Complexion enamel, vinegar rouge and brunette powder—pshaw! The way the men go on about her makes me positively ill. If you fall in love with her, Harry, you are no brother of mine. I don't care to be sister-in-law to a lithograph in fast colors.”