Grey. I'm afraid not, if they understood me, or the poets, who, as well as the painters, are with me, Horace's Pyrrha had red hair,—
"Cui flavam religas comam
Simplex munditiis?"
which, if Tomes will not be severely critical, I will translate,—
"For whom bind'st back thy amber hair
In neat simplicity?"
Mrs. Grey. The poets are always raving about neat simplicity, or something else that is not the fashion. I suppose they sustain you in your condemnation of perfumes, too.
Tomes. There I'm with Grey,—and the poets, too, I think.
Mrs. Grey. What say you, Mr. Key?
Tomes. At least, Grey, [turning to him,] Plautus says, "Mulier recte olet ubi nihil olet" which you may translate for the ladies, if you choose. I always distrust a woman steeped in perfumes upon the very point as to which she seeks to impress me favorably.
Grey [as if to himself and Tomes]—
"Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd,
Lady, it is to be presum'd,
Though Art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound."