"Yes," she said. "But black! I shall look a dowdy."
"No."
"Oh, but I shall," she murmured, dismally. "Colours suits me best. You see I'm thin now; not as I was when I—well, before I started. Ah, I looked different then, I did. I don't want to be a scarecrow and make you ashamed of me."
Julian longed to tell her that it was the rouge, the feathers, the scarlet skirt, the effusive bugles, that made a scarecrow of her. But he had a rough diplomacy that taught him to refrain. He stuck to his point, however.
"I shall give you a black dress and hat—"
"Oh, my hat's all right now," she interposed. "Them feathers is beautiful."
"Splendid; but I'll give you a hat to match the dress, and a feather boa, and black suede gloves."
"But, dearie, I shall be a trottin' funeral, that I shall," she expostulated, divided between excitement and perplexity.
"No; you'll look splendid. And Cuckoo—"
He hesitated, aware that he was treading on the divine quicksand of woman's prejudices.