I was convinced of it. I told her so.
“It’s tremendously nice of you to wish to eke out my odds and ends with your lovely things, Jane; but all the same I know I shouldn’t do justice to them, and I think I’d better stick to what is my own.”
“And that’s where you’re wrong, miss—begging your pardon for saying so. Now, there’s a tri-coloured sash. I got it when there was them patriotic goings on, me having a cousin in the militia what got invalided home owing to his drinking habits. That’s something like a sash, that is. You wear it over your shoulder like them Oddfellows—I had a uncle what was one till he got three months for knocking his wife about. After that he joined the Salvation Army for a change—and then you tie it round your waist, and let it hang. It’s a foot wide, and there’s seven yards of it, so there’s plenty for hanging. It would show off one of them shabby old dresses of yours, that it would.”
I realise the truth of this. Still—it was so very showy. The red hit you in the eye, the blue was another case of the wrong shade, the white, one could but hope, had seen whiter days. I could not see my way to imitating the Oddfellows and letting it hang. I broke it to her as gently as I was able.
“It is showy. Certainly no one could help noticing me if I did have it on.”
“I’d defy ’em.”
“So would I. But I’m thinking of wearing my black; and, do you know, Jane, I’m inclined to believe that the less colour I wear the better.”
“I believe in colour; it lights you up.”
“Yes; it lights you up, but it would make me flare. You see, you have such a much more delicate figure than I have.”
“I have been told that I’ve a delicate figure, and it’s no use my denying it. Still, I say this of colour—for everyone—it makes ’em stand out.”