"Not the same ones; we study appearances one way, and they do another; but it comes to the same thing, so far as I am concerned. One day I hope to be able to give it up and retire; when I do I shall wear corduroy breeches and if I happen to be in the kitchen eating onions when people come to see me, I shall call them in and offer them a share."
"Rather an uncomfortable ambition, isn't that?" he inquired. "I am afraid you will have to wait some time for its fulfilment, especially the corduroy. I doubt if you will achieve that this side the grave, though you might perhaps make a provision in your will to be buried in it."
Julia laughed a little. "You think my family would object? They would; but, you see, I should be retiring from them as well as from the world, the corduroy might be part of my bulwarks."
"I don't think you could afford it even for that; do you think women ever can afford that kind of disregard for appearances?"
"Plain ones can," she said; "it is the only compensation they have for being plain; not much, certainly, seeing what they lose, but they have it. When you can never look more than indifferent, it does not matter how much less you look."
"That is a rather unusual idea," he remarked; "it appears sound in theory, but in practice—"
"Sounder still," she answered him.
He laughed. "I'm afraid you won't make many converts here," he said, "where nearly every woman is plain, and according to your experience, every one, men and women too, think a great deal of looks; at all events, correct ones."
"They do do that," she admitted; "they just worship propriety and the correct, and have the greatest notion of the importance of their neighbours' eyes. It is a perfect treat to be out alone, and not have to regard them—this is the first time I have been out alone since I have been here."
"Rather hard; I thought every one had—er—time off."