He looked at me with that singular expression, and went out suddenly, as if he were afraid he might say something.
He had scarcely gone before I heard:
“My dear Mrs. Potiphar, the sight of you is refreshing as Hermon’s dew.”
I colored a little; Mr. Cheese says such things so softly. But I said good morning, and then asked him about liveries, etc.
He raised his hand to his cravat, (it was the most snowy lawn, Carrie, and tied in a splendid bow.)
“Is not this a livery, dear Mrs. Potiphar?”
And then he went off into one of those pretty talks, in what Mr. P. calls the “language of artificial flowers,” and wound up by quoting Scripture,—“Servants, obey your masters.”
That was enough for me. So I told Mr. Cheese that as he had already assisted me in colors once, I should be most glad to have him do so again. What a time we had, to be sure, talking of colors, and cloths, and gaiters, and buttons, and knee-breeches, and waistcoats, and plush, and coats, and lace, and hatbands, and gloves, and cravats, and cords, and tassels, and hats. Oh! it was delightful. You can’t fancy how heartily the Rev. Cream entered into the matter. He was quite enthusiastic, and at last he said, with so much expression, “Dear Mrs. Potiphar, why not have a chasseur?”
I thought it was some kind of French dish for lunch, so I said:
“I am so sorry, but we haven’t any in the house.”