'Set your mind at rest. Do you not see that the proper dressing of a lovely girl is a matter of transcendental importance? It is like the setting of a fine melody to rich and appropriate harmonies, it is the clothing of a poetic idea in a cloud of expressive, illustrative words. Be a jewel ever so fine, it exacts proper mounting.'
'Is this your own?' asked Jesse bluntly.
'It is from my father—like the ring. I do not pretend to originate, only to embellish.'
'I have no great interest in dress.'
'You are wrong. Excuse my saying it, but you are. You have, you say, at home salmon and ducks. The whole charm, delight of our prospective meal will consist in their being well dressed, stuffed and garnished. There is style in everything, in language, in painting, in cooking, and in clothing, and no woman is justified in forgetting this.'
After the lapse of a quarter of an hour, the feet of Mrs. Tomkin-Jones appeared on the stair, followed by the gradual unrolling of the lady, next by that of Winefred, and then that of the shop-woman, as they descended from the measuring department.
A placitude, an elevation, an illumination invested the countenance of Mrs. Tomkin-Jones, as though she had endowed a hospital, or was about to give her body to be burned in martyrdom for the Faith.
'Will one of the young men call my coachman,' said the lady with dignity. 'And, Miss Finch, you will remember my instructions about the ruche.'
'Home!' ordered Mrs. Tomkin-Jones, accepting the offices of the shopman, when he shut the carriage door, as undeserving of recognition, being of everyday occurrence. 'Since we live in the same square, Mr. Frank, my carriage will take you to your door after having set us down.'