“It's an exquisite survival of type,” said the duke. “She belongs to my time, not yours,” he added, realizing that “survival of type” might not clearly convey itself.
“Well, she belongs to mine now,” answered Tembarom. “I wouldn't lose her for a farm.”
“The voice, the phrases, the carriage might survive,-they do in remote neighborhoods, I suppose—but the dress is quite delightfully incredible. It is a work of art,” the duke went on. She had seemed too good to be true. Her clothes, however, had certainly not been dug out of a wardrobe of forty years ago.
“When I went to talk to the head woman in the shop in Bond Street I fixed it with 'em hard and fast that she was not to spoil her. They were to keep her like she was. She's like her little cap, you know, and her little mantles and tippets. She's like them,” exclaimed Tembarom.
Did he see that? What an odd feature in a man of his sort! And how thoroughly New Yorkish it was that he should march into a fashionable shop and see that he got what he wanted and the worth of his money! There had been no rashness in the hope that the unexplored treasure might be a rich one. The man's simplicity was an actual complexity. He had a boyish eye and a grin, but there was a business-like line about his mouth which was strong enough to have been hard if it had not been good-natured.
“That was confoundedly clever of you,” his grace commented heartily—“confoundedly. I should never have had the wit to think of it myself, or the courage to do it if I had. Shop-women make me shy.”
“Oh, well, I just put it up to them,” Tembarom answered easily.
“I believe,” cautiously translated the duke, “that you mean that you made them feel that they alone were responsible.”
“Yes, I do,” assented Tembarom, the grin slightly in evidence. “Put it up to them's the short way of saying it.”
“Would you mind my writing that down?” said the duke. “I have a fad for dialects and new phrases.” He hastily scribbled the words in a tablet that he took from his pocket. “Do you like living in England?” he asked in course of time.