“Well, go on,” said Carl. “What did you do in that big shop?”
“I did nothing. I lay in a drawer, shut up with a parcel of other purses.”
“Were they all sealskin, with silver clasps?”
“Some of them; and some were morocco and leather, with steel clasps.”
“I’m glad you have got silver clasps,” said Carl,—“you look very bright.”
For Mrs. Krinken had polished up the silver of the clasp and of every stud along the seams, till they shone again.
“I feel very dull now,” said the purse. “But in those days I was as bright as a butterfly, and as handsome. My sides were a beautiful bright red.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Carl; “they are not red a bit now.”
“That’s because I have been rubbed about in the world till all my first freshness is worn off. I am an old purse, and have seen a good deal of wear and tear.”
“You aren’t torn a bit,” said Carl.