The old man mumbled and muttered, fussing about among the boxes until he
found a full suit of silver-gray, silken stockings, and hound's-tongue
shoes to match.

"Dishyere clothes sho' is sober," he reflected aloud. "One li'l gole
vine a-crawlin' on de cuffs, nuvver li'l gole vine a-creepin' up de
wes'coat, gole buckles on de houn'-tongue--Whar de hat? Hat done loose
hisse'f! Here de hat! Gole lace on de hat--Cap'in Ormond sho' is quality
gemm'n. Ef he ain't, how come dishyere gole lace on de hat?"

"Come, Cato," I remonstrated, "am I dressing for a ball at Augustine,
that you stand there pulling my finery about to choose and pick? I tell
you to give me a sober suit!" I snatched a flowered robe from the bed's
foot-board, pulled it about me, and stepped to the floor.

Cato brought a chair and bowl, and, when I had washed once more I seated
myself while the old man shook out my hair, dusted it to its natural
brown, then fell to combing and brushing. My hair, with its obstinate
inclination to curl, needed neither iron nor pomade; so, silvering it
with my best French powder, he tied the short queue with a black ribbon
and dusted my shoulders, critically considering me the while.

"A plain shirt," I said, briefly.

He brought a frilled one.

"I want a plain shirt," I insisted.

"Dishyere sho't am des de plaines' an' de--"