With this assurance, haughtily given, Lady Mountford and her sister had to be contented.
“If I were your sister I would let a woman in Tottenham Court Road make my gowns rather than I would stand such treatment,” said Sir Henry; at which his wife shrugged her shoulders and told him he knew nothing about it.
“The cut is everything,” she said. “It is worth putting up with Smithson’s insolence to know that one is the best-dressed woman in the room.”
“But if Smithson dresses all the other women—”
“He doesn’t. There are very few who have the courage to go to him. His manners are so humiliating—he as good as told me I had a hump—and his prices are enormous.”
“And yet you call me extravagant for giving seventy pounds for a barb!” cried Sir Henry; “a bird that might bring me a pot of money in prizes.”
The grand question of trousseau and wedding-gown being settled, there remained only a point of minor importance—the honeymoon. Pamela was in favour of that silly season being spent in some rustic spot, far from the madding crowd, and Pamela’s lover was of her opinion in everything.
“We have both seen the best part of the Continent,” said Pamela, taking tea in Mildred’s upstairs sitting-room, which had assumed a brighter and more home-like aspect in her occupation than any other room in Miss Fausset’s house; “we don’t want to rush off to Switzerland or the Pyrenees; we want just to enjoy each other’s society and to make our plans for the future. Besides, travelling is so hideously unbecoming. I have seen brides with dusty hats and smuts on their faces who would have been miserable if they had only known what objects they were.”
“I think you and Mr. Stuart are very wise in your choice, dear,” answered Mildred. “England in July is delicious. Have you decided where to go?”