Mr. Richard declared that he admired a woman who was thoroughly domesticated.
“But really, Jilian,” he said, innocently, “your old clothes look very handsome. May I carry the basket for you?”
Miss Hardacre simpered, looked at her little feet, and blushed. She took care to be very coy and quaint with Richard, tricked out with charming affectations of simplicity, altogether a pretty pastoral of the cream and rose bloom order. No unspoiled youth would ever have fancied that many a male arm had circled that slim waist, or that sundry and several gallants had tasted those cherry lips.
“I hope you like pretty clothes, Richard,” she said, archly, handing him the basket, and wafting odors of lavender and of violet from her laced bosom like a living flower.
“Indeed, Jilian, I am proud to see you look so gay.”
“La, sir, I shall be a terrible expense to you, I am sure. What will you give me to dress myself on? Twenty pounds, eh, cousin?”
“Just as much as you like, Jilian.”
“Oh, Richard, how generous you are!”
“Am I?”
“You will be spoiling me, sir. But I do love pretty clothes, Richard, and scarves and perfumes and jewelry. Is it vanity, sir?”