Having given him this piece of information, she left her ambush, and proceeded to meet the all-unconscious blue girl; but, even as they went, Vizard returned to his normal condition, and doled out, rather indolently, that they were out on pleasure, and might possibly miss the object of the excursion if they were to encourage a habit of getting into rages about nothing.
Zoe was better than her word. She met Fanny with open admiration: to be sure, she knew that apathy, or even tranquillity, on first meeting the blues, would be instantly set down to envy.
“And where did you get it, dear?”
“At quite a small shop.”
“French?”
“Oh, no; I think she was an Austrian. This is not a French mixture: loud, discordant colors, that is the French taste.”
“Here is heresy,” said Vizard. “Why, I thought the French beat the world in dress.”
“Yes, dear,” said Zoe, “in form and pattern. But Fanny is right; they make mistakes in color. They are terribly afraid of scarlet; but they are afraid of nothing else: and many of their mixtures are as discordant to the eye as Wagner's music to the ear. Now, after all, scarlet is the king of colors; and there is no harm in King Scarlet, if you treat him with respect and put a modest subject next to him.”
“Gypsy locks, for instance,” suggested Fanny, slyly.
Miss Maitland owned herself puzzled. “In my day,” said she, “no one ever thought of putting blue upon blue; but really, somehow, it looks well.”