And "Madam," says he very gallantly, "I'm incredibly obliged, for you've
given me a rhyme."
"Oh! pray tell me--was it to 'white'?"
"Nay! 'twas harder than that," he murmurs.
"But I think that is monstrous difficult."
"Bright, sight, light," (cheerfully) "height," (regretfully) "night,"
(hopefully) and "fight," (fiercely).
"Indeed," adds Phyllida, "I thought of every one of them, but not one
would fit the sense."
The young gentleman who is a rhymester himself, grows interested. "Might
I," says he, "without impertinence inquire your necessity?"
"Sure, 'tis for a Valentine," and as Mr. Lovely's face darkens, she
hurriedly adds, "for a young lady, a friend of mine, you'll see the
direction writ on the flap."
His face clears again and he asks,
"You wish it delivered?"
"Oh, sir! how did you guess?"
"By accident, ma'am, or a happy intuition, I stepped out to take the air
this fine morning, and chance has discovered for me an incontrovertible
excuse for such idle exercise. To be footman to a sister of the Muses is
surely appropriate service for a poet."
"Then you are a poet?"
"My publisher affirms it."
"How romantick truly!" but the tail of the sigh is interrupted by her
mother's voice, and she has bare time to murmur her thanks, drop a
genteel curtsey and vanish. As for Mr. Lovely he has registered a vow to
attend the Monday Assembly next week instead of sitting down to Hazard
at the _Blue Boar_ Inn.
Abovestairs all is confusion because Mrs. Courteen cannot make up her
mind between yellow lutestring and orange silk. Phyllida whose heart is
full of the dancing springtide thinks her dear mamma should wear the
brightest colours and the richest stuffs in the world.
"For if you would only allow the curtains to be drawn back, you would
see what a golden morning it is outside," she complains to her mother
who answers:
"Women of fashion, Phyllida, dress by candlelight for candlelight."
Betty the maid, agrees with her young mistress, "Sweet, pretty dear
lamb," as she asseverates in Hampshire accents, "Orange silk, say I, and
God bless the gaulden sun."
Mrs. Courteen who is sitting nearly half-undressed and quite incapable
of forming a decision, bids Betty go and find out Thomas' opinion.
Thomas is the family footman and a great critick of men, women, and
religions. Presently Betty comes back and says that Tammas would prefar
yaller.
"Why, Betty, why?"
"Because," answers the maid, "he says silks are for the vain and
abominable and lutestrings have a pleasant twang and savour of the
psalmist."
So Mrs. Courteen turns from yellow sack to orange sack and from
primrose-quilted petticoat to apricock-quilted petticoat in despair,
till at last Betty asks triumphantly:
"How would it be, ma'am, if you was to wear your most elegant and truly
genteel green sattin seeing that it do be Saint Valentine with a smell
of green leaves in the air?"
This provokes a new decision, and causes a great rummaging in drawers
and presses and closets until the gown, fragrant with last year's
lavender, is discovered, when the toilet too long neglected starts
afresh.
"What patches, ma'am?" says Betty.
"My Cupid's bow and the two tears of widowhood."
"What scents, mamma?" asks Phyllida.
"My Citron Essence, child."
Then shoes are buckled, stockings are gartered, and a black mantua
placed gently round her shoulders. One more touch of powder, one more
brush from the rouge pot, one more flounce and one more flirt while the
watchet ribbands in the cap are hastily changed to ribbands of palest
apple-green, and a pair of emerald snaps are quickly fastened.
"Does my hoop sit straight? Oh! Lud! I vow I shall be late."
A breathless moment and, in place of the mantua, a tippet of pheasants'
feathers is adjusted. Down the Crescent is heard the opening of many
doors. Phyllida runs to the window, draws back the curtains so that the
sun streams in upon the sicklied candles.
"Has the Beau appeared yet?" asks Mrs. Courteen.
"Here he comes, and oh! mamma, he is wearing a suit of olive-green."
"What great good fortune! what taste I shall display. Green is certainly
the fashionable colour," and Mrs. Courteen began to trill to a tune of
her own invention....
"I shall be _a la mode_, I shall be _a la mode_ and very _bon ton_ and
_tres bon ton_."
Radiant, she descends the stairs followed by Betty carrying an enormous
glass goblet. Outside, rubicund Thomas with heavily knobbed cane awaits
her. The widow glances over her shoulder at the crowds swinging down the
street, all equipped with glass goblets of various sizes and shapes. She
throws an anxious glance towards the head of the procession. The Beau is
certainly in green of a shade slightly darker than her own but,
nevertheless, distinctly comparable. She tosses her cap in anticipation
of the envied triumph and sails in the general direction.
And you, Achates, who have accompanied me so early in the morning to the
toilets of some of our principal characters, pray give yourself the
additional trouble of thinking what a Great Man he must be to induce
these butterflies and moths of fashion to sally forth Cap a Pie perfect
at half-past eight o'clock of a February morning.
"Let Bath be true to her bedgowns," he wrote, "in Curtain Wells we are
ignorant that men and women undress."
When we think of that apoplectick Circumference which so lately
protruded, we can heartily assent to his opinion.
_Chapter the Second_