“You shan’t make a dowdy of me, Arthur, I can tell you,” she said. “I didn’t get married to go about the world in these poor sort of clothes, like a dressmaker’s girl; and to France, where everybody dresses so well!”
This was during the two or three days they stayed in London on purpose, if the truth had been told, to get a suitable outfit for her; but only Arthur, not Nancy, was aware of this true motive for the delay.
“My dear girl, if they dress well it is by having suitable dresses for everything, not by being fine,” said Arthur, driven to his wit’s end.
“Fine! you mean that I am dressed up,” cried Nancy, her colour rising, “and that is hard, for it was all done to please you; I thought you would like to see me fine. I never used to mind what clothes I wore; but I—and mamma too—tried to make as good a show as ever we could, for your sake!”
What could Arthur do but protest that he loved her more, if that were possible, for the pains she had taken to please him, and thought the salmon-coloured dress lovely; but after a while he returned to the charge. “In France,” he said with the air of an authority, “they are great on having a dress for every different occasion. Their dresses for the morning they never wear in the evening, and their travelling dresses—”
“But goodness me!” cried Nancy, “what an extravagant way of going on! It may be all very well for duchesses and grand ladies; but that would never do for a poor girl like me.”
“You forget you are not a girl at all, much less a poor one,” he said, pursuing his wiles, “but a married lady, my Nancy.” Goodness me is not a pretty oath; he swallowed it however, not daring to attempt correction, with a secret grimace.
“Yes, that is all very well,” she repeated, “but all the same we are poor enough. I shan’t be a bit richer than I was. I may be grander, I don’t know; for your folks have cast you off, Arthur, you mustn’t forget that.”
“Oh! my folks!” cried the unhappy one under his breath; the word hurt him, in spite of himself. He had not been so delicate once; but this was like a dig in the ribs to Arthur. It made him cry out, though he stifled the cry.
“No, I don’t think much of what you say if that is French fashion,” said Nancy, “English fashion is far better. Instead of fussing and changing all day long, and wasting one’s time, it is so convenient just to pin in a bit of lace and double back the fronts, and there you have a lovely dress for the evening; that’s what I like. No need to go and unpack one’s boxes and get out another dress, it’s done in a moment. You must allow, Arthur, that English fashion is best for that.”