“I never saw a better-fashioned gown,” said Katharine, “more quaint, more pleasing, nor more praiseworthy. I suppose you mean to make a puppet of me.”
“Why, true, he means to make a puppet of you,” said Petruchio, wilfully mistaking to whom she spoke.
“She says your worship means to make a puppet of her,” explained the tailor.
But Petruchio would listen to no reason or argument, and sent the tailor away in the most peremptory manner, though privately the man was told he would be paid for the gown, and that he was not to be offended at Petruchio’s hasty words.
“Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your father’s house even in this honest, mean raiment,” said Petruchio. “After all, fine clothes are of no importance. Is the jay more precious than the lark because his feathers are more beautiful? Oh no, good Kate; neither are you any the worse for this mean array. If you feel ashamed about it, lay the blame on me; and so, be cheerful. Come, we will go at once to feast and amuse ourselves at your father’s house. Let me see: I think it is now about seven o’clock; we shall easily get there by dinner-time.”
“What’s this? A sleeve?”
Katharine looked at her husband in astonishment; and well she might, for it was already the middle of the day.