“Oh, Sandie, is she living?”
“De’il a living?” said Sandie. “Her body’s timber, and her face and hands are made out of cobbler’s wax. That’s how living she is.”
“But what a splendid dress! And yonder is another. Surely Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these!”
“Well, Fanny, lassie, beautiful though this shop be, it is a pretty cheap one, so we’ll buy your marriage dress here.”
The shop-walker was very obsequious. “Marriage dress, sir. Certainly, sir. Third counter down, my lady.”
Fanny had never been so addressed before, and she rose several inches in her own estimation.
“I—that is, she—is needing a marriage dress, missie.”
“Ready-made?”
“Ay, that’ll do, if it isn’t over dear. Grand though we may look in our Sunday clothes, we’re not o’er-burdened with cash; but we’re going to be married for all that.”
Sandie chuckled and took snuff, and Fanny blushed, as usual.