I've just decided that this lady ought to make up as a Swede servant
girl and play the part, when her friend hooks in:

"Oh, yes; I think it will look perfectly sweet! It is a foulard in one
of those new heliotrope tints, made with a crêpe de chine chemisette,
with a second vest peeping out on either side of the front over an
embroidered satin vest and cut in scallops on the edge, finished with a
full ruche of white chiffon, and the sleeves are just too tight for any
use, and the skirt is too long for any good, and I declare the lining is
too sweet! and I just hate to wear it out on the street and get it
soiled, and I was going to have it made with a tunic, and Mrs.
Wigwag--that's my brother-in-law's first cousin--she had her's made to
wear with guimpes--and they are so economical! and--"

Think of a guy having to ride four miles and get his forehead fanned all
the while with talk about foulard and crêpe de chine and guimpes!

Wouldn't it lead you to a padded cell?

Say! I was down and out--no kidding!

I wanted to get up and fight the door-tender, but I couldn't.

One of the conversationalists was sitting on my overcoat.

I felt that if I got up and called my coat back to Papa she might lose
the thread of her story, and the jar would be something frightful.

So I sat still and saved her life.