It was a milliner’s bill for twenty dollars, for one felt hat trimmed with ostrich plumes.
“Oh, Brian, what did you do about it?”
“Paid it. You must know that my Zeb, or Zilla as she prefers to be called—she says Zeb is vulgar—has fully made up her mind to become a young lady of fashion. She hasn’t got farther than the skin of decent people yet, and clothes to her are the token of respectability inside and out. I am reading ‘Sartor Resartus’ to her, but it hasn’t made much impression yet. Starting on the road to fashion she has resolved to drag me after her. I suppose you didn’t notice my new raiment?”
“Yes, I did,” said Stargarde, surveying the remarkably neat check of his tweed suit. “I never saw you look so smart, Brian.”
“Zilla hadn’t been in the house three days before she ransacked my wardrobe. Said it was—well, Mrs. Trotley says she swore like a ’longshoreman at the shabbiness of it. She stationed herself at the window and took observations. Little minx, like a Halifax girl born and bred, she has taken to scarlet fever as naturally as a fish uses its fins. Dotes on the military; would put me in a uniform if she could. Next to uniform she admires morning clothes of officers. She sketched one fellow top to toe for me, collar, tie, trousers, coat, boots; had her pencil and paper behind window curtains; then badgered me till I went to the tailor’s. Told her I wouldn’t ape any man’s garments, but would buy new fit-out. Have a collar on that almost saws my neck off, see,” and he held up his head. “Do you like the pattern of my tie, Stargarde?”
“Very much,” said the woman laughingly. “It is too delightful to think of Zeb—Zilla’s dictating to you.”
"I knew you’d enjoy it. Little witch made me go to church with her, to show off my new things she said. She is a fearful heathen. Wish you could have seen us Sunday filing into church, I and my respectable family. Mrs. Trotley always looks, as she is, a lady. Zilla is like a demon in frocks, with those wild eyes of hers. She drew a long breath when we got inside the doors, as if she were going into a shower bath, clutched my hand, and regularly mowed down the people with her eyes as she gazed defiantly about her. She would have slapped any one that laughed.
“I felt almost as queer—haven’t been to church for months. Zilla got in a fearful tangle with the service, but she is not the child to quail before a ritual. All this week she has been sitting with prayer-book in her hand. Mrs. Trotley is teaching her to find places, and I hear ‘Good Lord deliver us’ and the ‘Apostles’ Creed’ from every corner of the house. When ladies come to call on Mrs. Trotley she won’t see them, or if she does, she talks French. I happened to be in the house the other afternoon—she had run to meet me, and two old Miss Bellinghams caught her. She rarely loses self-possession. ‘C’mont allez-vous?’ she said in a meek, put-on-voice. Her French is remarkable, her own composition mostly. The like was never heard before nor will be again. ‘Don’t you talk English?’ they asked. ‘A leetle,’ she replied; ‘Je prefaire to parlee français.’ Poor little brat, she is afraid that her vile English will give her away. She is taking utmost pains to speak well. Makes me correct every mistake.”
“And she loves you, Brian,” said Stargarde in a delighted voice and with flashing eyes.
“I suppose so. Follows me like a dog about the house. Embraces frequently. Makes my money fly too, which is proof of feminine affection. First day or two she was very quiet—not overcome, she has been about too much for that—but sizing us up. Then she began to overturn; old Hannah must go and live with her son. I put my foot down there. Hannah must stay. Zilla swore a little, but was pacified by an offer of two maids to attend properly to the house. New furniture has been bought, likewise flower pots, bird cages, and such trash. I expect she’ll ruin me.”