"How nice! But I mean the Queen newspaper. I am dying to know if it really is coming in. Now it has been seen in Paris, I'm afraid it's inevitable."
"May I ask what it is?"
"Perhaps I oughtn't to mention it—crinoline. There is a talk about something called a crinolette."
"And Crinolette, I suppose, is own sister to Crinoline?"
"I'm afraid so—don't you hate them? I do; I love the early Italian style—clinging cashmeres, soft flowing draperies."
"And accentuated angles—well, yes. If one has to ride in a hansom or a single brougham with a woman the hoop and powder style is rather a burthen. But women are such lovely beings—they are adorable in any costume. Madame Tallien with bare feet, and no petticoats to speak of—Pompadour in patches and wide-spreading brocade—Margaret of Orleans in a peaked head dress and puffed sleeves—Mary Stuart in a black velvet coif, and a ruff—each and all adorable—on a pretty woman."
"On a pretty woman—yes. The pretty women set the fashions and the ugly women have to wear them—that's the difficulty."
"Ah, me," sighed the Baron, "did any one ever see an ugly woman? There are so many degrees of beauty that it takes a long time to get from Venus to her opposite. A smile—a sparkle—a kindly look—a fresh complexion—a neat bonnet—vivacious conversation—such trifles will pass for beauty with a man who worships the sex. For him every flower in the garden of womanhood, from the imperial rose to the lowly buttercup, has its own peculiar charm."
"And yet I should have thought you were awfully fastidious," said Mopsy, trifling with the newspapers, "and that nothing short of absolute perfection would please you."
"Absolute perfection is generally a bore. I have met famous beauties who had no more attraction than if they had been famous statues."