The extremely delicate tints of Edith's costume led me to remark that the color effects of the modern dress seemed to be in general very light as compared with those which prevailed in my day.
"The result," I said, "is extremely pleasing, but if you will excuse a rather prosaic suggestion, it occurs to me that with the whole nation given over to wearing these delicate schemes of color, the accounts for washing must be pretty large. I should suppose they would swamp the national treasury if laundry bills are anything like what they used to be."
This remark, which I thought a very sensible one, set Edith to laughing. "Doubtless we could not do much else if we washed our clothes," she said; "but you see we do not wash them."
"Not wash them!--why not?"
"Because we don't think it nice to wear clothes again after they have been so much soiled as to need washing."
"Well, I won't say that I am surprised," I replied; "in fact, I think I am no longer capable of being surprised at anything; but perhaps you will kindly tell me what you do with a dress when it becomes soiled."
"We throw it away--that is, it goes back to the mills to be made into something else."
"Indeed! To my nineteenth-century intellect, throwing away clothing would seem even more expensive than washing it."
"Oh, no, much less so. What do you suppose, now, this costume of mine cost?"
"I don't know, I am sure. I never had a wife to pay dressmaker's bills for, but I should say certainly it cost a great deal of money."