“In what way?”
“Our complexions go well with each other’s.”
“I should call that harmony, not disagreement.”
“Perhaps—in your technical nomenclature. But I call it disagreement. Besides, we haven’t a thought in common. I am a—well, how shall I define myself?” she looked up quizzingly, her fan to her lips. “I belong to that class of women whose sex is a misfit. And she is—”
“And she is”—he repeated, in some suspense.
“She is the sort of woman who won’t renew the velvet edging on her walking-dresses.”
“Now you puzzle me.”
“It is evident you know nothing of women, or have only observed Englishwomen who mostly put up with braid. Velvet edging, which is an American notion, saves frayed skirts, and wears out quicker than the stuff. Look at her gown to-night—it trails; mine fits. She retains the infantile habit of long clothes; I am ‘growd up’ and in short frocks.”
“I didn’t notice her gown.”
“Men never do. That’s why we wear so little of them.”