Tibbie. In the church-window, painted.
Sally. Well, this is as handsome as a hundred angels, less than a foot tall, all in new clothes, with little hats on.
Tibbie. Sally, I think I know, now. Only it couldn't be that. There couldn't likely be a hundred of them altogether, for it isn't a store you brought me to! You didn't tell me we were going to a store.
Sally. No more it is. We're going to stay right here in Mrs. Darling's house, and no place but here.
Tibbie [faintly, looking all about]. But where is there a hundred of anything?
Sally. Oh, this ain't it, yet! This is only like the outside entry. Now, Miss Tibbs, what kind of scent will you have on your hands?
Tibbie. Oh, Sal!
Sally [at dresser]. Shall it be Violet, or Roossian Empress, or—what's this other?—Lilass Blank? or the anatomizer played over them like the garden hose? [They unstop the bottles in turn, and draw up great, noisy, luxurious breaths.]
Tibbie. This, Sally, this one with a double name, like a person. [Sally pours a drop in each hand, and Tibbie dances as she rubs them together.] Why are the little scissors crooked? [Busily picks up things one after the other]. What for is the fluting-irons? What for is the butter in the little chiny jar? What's the flour for in the silver box? Oh, what's this? Oh, Sal, what's that?
Sally. It's to make you pale. It ain't fashionable to be red. [Picks up powder-puff, and gives Tibbie, who draws back startled and coughing, a dusty dab on each cheek, then applies it to her own. The two stand gazing in silent interest at themselves in the mirror, gradually breaking into smiles. Sally suddenly hitches first one shoulder, then the other, and brushes her face clean, Tibbie faithfully aping her movements. Then they look at themselves again.]