"How much does a dress cost—making, trimming, and all."
"Oh, some would be simple and inexpensive, of course—say, on an average, £6 all round."
"That would be more than £1,800 a year, without counting Sundays. You'll have to marry in the city, Miss Leigh."
"I shall have to make £30 a year supply my wardrobe—and earn it," returned she, lightly.
This admission did not lower her in the estimation of the chivalrous young sailor, for such he was, though it cooled the already slight interest taken in her by the portly lady on the other side.
Mrs. Oliphant, who had made acquaintance with everybody, was gabbling away with her accustomed volubility.
"Oh, my dear Mrs. Rideout, have you tasted this vol-au-vent? You really should. I have got the bill of fare" (with girlish elation). "There's fricandeau of veal, calf's-head collops, tripe à—" here she stopped short, confused at the shocking word.
Bluebell and the young lieutenant had arrived at sufficient intimacy to exchange a merry glance.
In the mean time, the bride was enacting the pretty spoiled child, and resisting the solicitations of her husband—a spoony-looking infantry captain—that she would endeavour to eat something. "Every one says it is so much better," reiterated he.
"But I am not hungry," said the baby, with most interesting naiveté.