"I do! 'Tis manifestly out of keeping with your 'broideries, your pleats, tags, lappets, pearl-buttons, galoons and the rest on't."
"'Twould almost seem you do not like me thus," says she frowning down at her finery but with the dimple showing plainer than ever.
"Why truly," says I, stooping to take up the jewelled comb where it lay, "I liked your ragged gown better."
"Because your own clothes are so worn and sorry, sir. 'Tis time you had better, I must see to it—"
"Nay, never trouble!"
"'Twill be joy!" says she sweetly, but setting her chin at me. "And then—good lack, your hair, Martin!"
"What of it?"
"All elf-lox. And then, your beard!"
"What o' my beard?"
"So wild and shaggy! And 'tis so completely out o' the mode."