"It's not the dress, that doesn't matter--though I can imagine you in
trailing purple velvet with a trimming of sable."

An illumination shone in her face, as if her soul had suddenly
blossomed.

"Purple velvet, and what else did you say, sir?" she questioned.

"Sable--fur, you know, the richest, softest, queenliest fur there is."

"I'd like to see it," she rejoined.

"Well, it couldn't improve you!--remember always that the fewer fine
clothes you have on the better. Tell me, Blossom," he added, touching
her shoulder, "have you many lovers?"

She shook her head. "There are so few about here that any woman would
look at."

"I've been told that there's an engaging young rector."

"Mr. Mullen--well, so he is--and he preaches the most beautiful sermons.
But he fancies Molly Merryweather, they say, like all the others, though
he won't be likely to marry anybody from around here, I suppose."

Her drawling Southern tongue lent a charm, he felt, to her naive
disclosures.

"Like all the others?" he repeated smiling. "Do you mean to tell me
that Reuben's piquant little granddaughter is a greater belle in the