Susan suddenly stopped.
“Only what, Miss Susy?’
“Only I don’t see how you can possibly go into the copse in this dress. Think how the brambles would prick and tear, and how that chain would catch in the hazel stems! and as to climbing the holly-tree in that fine tight coat, or beating the stubbles for a hare in those delicate thin shoes, why the thing is out of the question. And I really don’t believe,” continued Susan, finding it easier to go on than to begin, “I really don’t believe that either Hector or Harebell would know you if they saw you so decked out.”
William laughed outright
“I don’t mean to go coursing in these shoes, I assure you, Susy. This is an evening dress. I have a shooting-jacket and all thereunto belonging in the britschka, which will not puzzle either Harebell or Hector, because it’s just what they have been used to see me wear.”
“Put it on, then, I beseech you?” exclaimed Susy; “put it on directly!”
“Why, I am not going coursing this evening.”
“No—but my father!—Oh, dear William! if you did but know how he hates finery, and foreigners, and whiskers, and britschkas! Oh, dear William, send off the French gentleman and the outlandish carriage—run into the coppice and put on the shooting-dress!”
“Oh, Susan!” began William; but Susan having once summoned up courage sufficient to put her remonstrances into words, followed up the attack with an earnestness that did not admit a moment’s interruption.
“My father hates finery even more than Harebell or Hector would do. You know his country notions, dear William; and I think that latterly he has hated everything that looks Londonish and new-fangled worse than ever. We are old-fashioned people at Rutherford. There’s your pretty old friend Mary Amott can’t abide gewgaws any more than my father.”