“It does. You’re quite right. Especially a red, white, and blue sash. There’s not a doubt of it.”
“And what I say is, a woman wants to stand out, unless she’s a mere worm, and goodness knows that I’m no worm. The more she stands out the more she’s noticed—and, if she’s any opinion of herself, as she ought to have, notice is what she wants. Now here is something tasty—and full dress. That’s a opera cloak, that is, green silk with yellow stripes. That’s beaver trimming round the edges—real beaver. It’s a bit rusty here and there, but nothing to signify. I call it handsome. It was left to me by an aunt what died. She went about a good deal in society; her husband being a scene painter, and getting her orders for the theatre constant. Nights together she’d sit in the middle of the front row of the stalls in that very cloak, especially when business was a bit slack and they wanted the theatre to seem crowded as it were. Because, as I’ve been given to understand, people what pays won’t go to the theatre unless you can make ’em believe that they can’t get in. My aunt got to be known by that cloak. ‘The lady with the green silk opera-cloak with yellow stripes and beaver trimming’ they used to speak of her as. I’ve only worn it myself two or three times, to dances and such like. Now it would set you off, that would. It’s a little short, perhaps, for you; but I’m told that they’re wearing them short just now.”
It would scarcely have covered my shoulders; but there was a good deal too much of it, for all that.
“Are they? You evidently are better posted in the fashions, Jane, than I am.”
“I take in two fashion-books myself—leastways, there are fashions in them—and see seven.”
“Do you? That explains it. It’s a wonderful cloak; but I have a cloak of my own, though it isn’t much of a one, and I really think I ought to wear it.”
“There’s no ought about it, if you’ll excuse my saying so. You can wear my opera cloak, if you like, miss, and welcome.”
“You’re very, very good, Jane. Suppose we wait till I have finished dressing, and then see how it goes.”
“Very well, miss; as you please. But there’s one thing you’ll have to wear, and that’s those scarlet shoes. You told me yourself that you’d a pair of scarlet stockings, but no shoes to match ’em; so, as far as wearing these goes, it’s a case of have to.”
Apparently it was. The scarlet shoes in question never had been of first-rate quality, and they were not exactly new. It seemed as if the “lady friend” had given them a fair trial before handing them on to Jane. But they were still presentable, and, plainly, in Jane’s opinion, beyond the possibility of reproach. I had refused her hat, her sash, her cloak. I had not the heart to add her shoes to the list of my refusals,—at any rate, without giving them a trial. And it was soon made clear that Jane’s ideas on the subject of a trial were thorough. I got into the stockings, but getting into the shoes was quite a different thing. She pushed, and I pushed; but the scarlet shoes continued to show reluctance to make the acquaintance of my feet. As usual, she commented on the fact in her somewhat painfully plain-spoken fashion.