‘Dear Celia, you know how fond I am of you, but I think I could really have managed to get married without your assistance.’
‘Get married! Yes, but how would you have done it?’ cried Celia, making her eyes very round and big. ‘You would have made a most horrid muddle of it. Now, what about your trousseau? I’ll wager you have hardly thought of it.’
‘There you are wrong. I have ordered two travelling dresses, and a handsome dinner dress.’
‘And your collars and cuffs, your handkerchiefs, your peignoirs, your camisoles,’ pursued Celia, enumerating a string of articles.
‘My dear child, do you suppose I have lived all these years without cuffs and collars, and handkerchiefs?’
‘Laura, unless you have everything new you might just as well not be married at all.’
‘Then you may consider my marriage no marriage, for I am not troubling myself about new things.’
‘Give me carte blanche and leave everything to me. What is the use of my sacrificing Brighton just when it was more than too enchanting, unless I can be of some use to you?’
‘Well, Celia, in order that you may not be unhappy, I will give you permission to review my wardrobe, and if you find an alarming dearth of collars and handkerchiefs I’ll drive you to Beechampton in the pony carriage, and you shall buy whatever you think proper.’
‘Beechampton is hideously behind the age, disgustingly démodé, and your things ought to be in the latest style. I’ll look through the advertisements in the Queen, and send to London for patterns. It is no use having new things if they are not in the newest fashion. One does not wear out one’s cuffs and collars—they go out.’