There was further a little murmur about what a Mr. Hopkins admired, but it was lost in the arrival of Miss Woodford’s mails.
They clustered round, as eager as a set of schoolgirls, over Anne’s dresses. Happily even the extreme of fashion had not then become ungraceful.
“Her Majesty will not have the loose drapery that folks used to wear,” said Hester Bridgeman.
“No,” said Pauline; “it was all very well for those who could dispose it with an artless negligence, but for some I could name, it was as though they had tumbled it on with a hay-fork and had their hair tousled by being tickled in the hay.”
“Now we have the tight bodice with plenty of muslin and lace, the gown open below to show the petticoat,” said Hester; “and to my mind it is more decorous.”
“Decorum was not the vogue then,” laughed Pauline, “perhaps it will be now. Oh, what lovely lace! real Flanders, on my word! Where did you get it, Miss Woodford?”
“It was my mother’s.”
“And this? Why, ’tis old French point, you should hang it to your sleeves.”
“My Lady Archfield gave it to me in case I should need it.”
“Ah! I see you have good friends and are a person of some condition,” put in Hester Bridgeman. “I shall be happy to consort with you. Let us—”