“Well, aunt, are you satisfied?”
My aunt held her hand-glass at a distance, brought it near, held it away again, smiled, and, leaning back in her chair, said: “It must be acknowledged that it is charming, this. What do your friends call it?”
“Make-up, aunt.”
“It is vexatious that it has not another name, for really I shall have recourse to it for the evening—from time to time. It is certain that it is attractive. Haven’t you a little box for the lips?”
“Here it is.”
“Ah! in a bottle, it is liquid.”
“It is a kind of vinegar, as you see. Don’t move, aunt. Put out your lips as if you wished to kiss me. You don’t by chance want to?”
“Yes, and you deserve it. You will teach me your little accomplishments, will you not?”
“Willingly, aunt.”
“Your vinegar is miraculous! what brightness it gives to the lips, and how white one’s teeth look. It is true my teeth were always—”