Mr. Murden, foolish man, supposed at first that she meant a picture of the children, who were marvellously near of an age—two of them.
"Well, dear, when shall we take them down to Root's? Say the word." For Mr. Murden himself thought it a great pity that such remarkable beauty should be lost to the world. No doubt, Root would insist on a duplicate for his show-case.
"Root's! I was talking about that silk, Mr. Murden. What has Root got to do with it, I'd like to know?" Mrs. Murden seemed inclined to help to tarts before the dessert was served.
"Oh!" And Mr. Murden resumed his carver, helping himself to a second cut of beef. "Bless my soul, how much women do think of dress! Who's going to have a new one?"
"It's high time I had, dear. Only think, we've been married three years next month, and I've only had one silk in that while."
"Why, you had one in the summer—that striped frock and cape."
"That's an India; we don't call these thin things anything. I mean a good, heavy poult de soie, like my mazarine blue I had when we were married. It's fairly gone now, careful as I have been. It's been turned and cleaned, and now it's so shabby I hate to put it on."
"I'm sure, you never look better in any dress you've got," insisted Mr. Murden, who had very pleasant associations connected with their early married life and the dress in question.
"Why, it's a perfect fringe around the bottom, and has two great stains on the skirt. What are you thinking of, John?"
"Well, well, I'll give it up. I like it, that's all. How much will a new one cost?"