Next season,—Paris-prints assert,—
We must go feathered to the skirt:
My modiste keeps on the alert.
Owls, hawks, jays—swallows most approve.
He. Dare I speak plainly?
She. Oh, I trust!
He. Then, Lady Blanche, it less would move
In heart and soul of me disgust
Did you strip off those spoils you wear,
And stand—for thanks, not shillings—bare