“Mrs. Bunny? Pastel pink?” She sought enlightenment.
“One moment. I would then have likened you to a rose and a sea-shell, both chaste similes and very pretty conceits. But now I can say to you, that you are most fair in this colour since it is the colour of the sky, therefore—may we not say?—(I think we may) the colour of heaven—and of my birthstone, the aquamarine, and, ah!—the colour of your eyes.”
“What?” She was startled.
“Blue sky—that is to say, blue heavens—blue birthstone, blue dress, blue eyes; gown and eyes a perfect match....”
“Mercy! I hope not,” she burst out laughing, “Whatever makes you think this frock is blue? Or do my eyes look like lavender to you?”
Mr. Andrews’s rather loose under jaw slipped down, the smiles of rapt satisfaction faded. Slowly he turned a purplish red that passed off in a chill.
“Mrs. Mearely,” he asked hoarsely. “Did you say that gown is l—lavender?”
She shrieked joyously. Then, taking pity on his plainly revealed agony of mind, tried to control her laughter.
“Yes. At least, it is lilac; but they are much alike. Lavender, lilac....”
“Stop!” he gasped.