“That’s a good one,” he said. “I suppose the laws (sic) that govern women’s clothes (sic) require rather less intelligence than does the sucking of eggs. Of course, my office is a complete sinecure. I’m not dressing you at all. Apparently I’m not—not competent. A woman’s headgear alone seems to be a life study. If I make the most patent suggestion, all the women in the place nearly burst themselves with laughter: and when I ask why, the only answer I get is that I ‘shouldn’t like it like that.’ And sometimes Madge adds that ‘the line’ld be wrong.’ And when I ask, ‘What line?’ she says, ‘The line of the hat.’ Not ‘lining,’ mark you, but ‘line.’ ”
“Well, I expect it would.”
Herrick put a hand to his head.
“ ‘Et tu, Brute,’ ” he murmured. Then, “Look here. Supposing I was an architect, and you wanted to choose a house. And every one you liked I said, ‘You can’t have that because the point’s wrong.’ And when you said ‘What point?’ I said, ‘The point of the house.’ Well, after about thirty, you’ld want to lie down and scream.”
“Your wretched things,” wailed Eleanor, “are every bit as bad. Yesterday I chose a grey suit—at least, I chose the cloth. And I said I’ld bring them the buttons. As it happened, I’d seen some that morning—blue pebble buttons——”
“Good God!” said Herrick.
“Exactly,” said Eleanor. “That was what Crispin said. And when I asked the cause of the excitement, I was told that I ‘didn’t understand.’ I ask you.”
“At least,” said Herrick faintly, “we don’t change our rubric once a year.”
“Once a month,” corrected Willoughby. “You wait. How many hats did you get to-day?”
“Three,” said David. “One’s a topper—all blue and white straw. Looks as if someone had rolled on it and then bought it half a pint of gooseberries to keep it quiet.”