“Your rose-coloured, then, the best of the batch.”
“I haven’t a thread of point lace to match.”
“Your brown moire-antique.” “Yes, and look like a Quaker.”
“The pearl-coloured—” “I would, but that plaguy dressmaker
Has had it a week.” “Then that exquisite lilac,
In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock.”
(Here the nose took again the same elevation):
“I wouldn’t wear that for the whole of creation.”
“Why not? It’s my fancy, there’s nothing could strike it
As more comme il faut.” “Yes, but, dear me, that lean