“Her dress is indecorous for a widow,” said that lady severely.
“Oh, I don’t see that,” replied Lavendar. “She is in reality only a girl, and her widowhood has already lasted two years, you say.”
“Once a widow always a widow,” returned Mrs. de Tracy sententiously, with a self-respecting glance at her own cap and the half-dozen 101 dull jet ornaments she affected. Lavendar laughed outright, but she rather liked his laughter: it made her think herself witty. Once he had told her she was “delicious,” and she had never forgotten it.
“That’s going pretty far, my dear lady,” he replied. “Not all women are so faithful to a memory as you. I understand Americans don’t wear weeds, and to me her blue cape is a delightful note in the landscape. Her dresses are conventional and proper, and I fancy she cannot express herself without a bit of colour.”
“The object of clothing, Mark, is to cover and to protect yourself, not to express yourself,” said Mrs. de Tracy bitingly.
“The thought of wearing anything bright always makes me shrink,” remarked Miss Smeardon, who had never apparently observed the tip of her own nose, “but some persons are less sensitive on these points than others.”
Mrs. de Tracy bowed an approving assent 102 to this. “A widow’s only concern should be to refrain from attracting notice,” she said, as though quoting from a private book of proverbial philosophy soon to be published.
“Then Mrs. Loring might as well have burned herself on her husband’s funeral pyre, Hindoo fashion!” argued Lavendar. “A woman’s life hasn’t ended at two and twenty. It’s hardly begun, and I fear the lady in question will arouse attention whatever she wears.”
“Would she be called attractive?” asked Mrs. de Tracy with surprise.
“Oh, yes, without a doubt!”