‘If it does annoy Lucy—we do not so often go out together—don’t, Owen, I never said it was to be now, I am bent on Landseer.’
‘But I said so,’ returned Owen, ‘for Miss Charlecote regards the distressed dressmakers—four dresses—think of the fingers that must ache over them.’
‘Well, he does what he pleases,’ sighed Honor; ‘there’s no help for it, you see, Phœbe. Shall you dislike looking on?’ For she doubted whether Phœbe had been provided with means for her equipment, and might not require delay and correspondence but the frank answer was, ‘Thank you, I shall be glad of the opportunity. Papa told me I might fit myself out in case of need.’
‘And suppose we are too late for the Exhibition.’
‘I never bought a dress before,’ quoth Phœbe.
Owen laughed. ‘That’s right, Phœbe! Be strong-minded and original enough to own that some decorations surpass “Raffaelles, Correggios, and stuff”—’
‘No,’ said Phœbe, simply, and with no affectation of scorn, ‘they only interest me more at this moment.’
Honor smiled to Owen her love for the honesty that never spoke for effect, nor took what it believed it ought to feel, for what it really felt. Withal, Owen gained his purpose, and conducted the two ladies into one of the great shops of ladies apparel.
Phœbe followed Miss Charlecote with eyes of lively anticipation. Miss Fennimore had taught her to be real when she
could not be philosophical, and scruples as to the ‘vain pomp and glory of the world’ had not presented themselves; she only found herself admitted to privileges hitherto so jealously withheld as to endow them with a factitious value, and in a scene of real beauty. The textures, patterns, and tints were, as Owen observed, such as approved themselves to the æsthetic sense, the miniature embroidery of the brocades was absolute art, and no contemptible taste was displayed in the apparently fortuitous yet really elaborate groupings of rich and delicate hues, fine folds, or ponderous draperies.