"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?"
"Oh, Sal!"
"Shall it be Violet, or Russian Empress, or—what's this other—Lilass Blank? or the anatomizer played over them like the garden-hose?"
They unstopped the bottles in turn, and drew up out of them great, noisy, luxurious breaths. "This, Sally, this," said Tibbie at the one with the double name like a person. Sally poured a drop in her little rough, red hands, and she danced as she rubbed them together.
"Why are the little scissors crooked?" she asked, busily picking up and putting down 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 picked up the powder-puff and gave her little friend, who drew back startled and coughing, a dusty dab with it on each cheek. "It's to make you pale," she said. "It ain't fashionable to be red." She applied the puff to her own cheeks as well. The two stood gazing in silent interest at themselves in the mirror, and gradually broke into smiles at the incongruous reflection. Sally suddenly bent one cheek, hitched up one shoulder, and brushed half her face clean; then did the same by the other cheek with her other shoulder. Tibbie, who had watched her, aped her movement faithfully. They looked at themselves again, and Tibbie remarked, "But I ain't red, anyhow."
"Law! that you ain't! When are you going to begin to get some fat on your bones, Tibbie, or to grow?"
"I don't know. Who's the gentleman, Sal, in the pretty frame?"
"That's Mrs.'s husband. He ain't been living some time."
"Oh, he isn't living. Listen, listen, Sally! What's that noise I keep hearing? I've heard it ever since we came."