"You were talking about the red last time, if you remember, dear."

"Oh, so I was, you're quite right. That's the worst of shopping.
Do you know I get quite
confused sometimes."

"Then you will decide on the red, madam?"

"Yes--yes, I shan't do any better, shall I, dear? What do you
think? You haven't got any other shades of red, have you? This is
such an ugly red."

The shopman reminds her that she has seen all the other reds, and
that this is the particular shade she selected and admired.

"Oh, very well," she replies, with the air of one from whom all
earthly cares are falling, "I must take that then, I suppose. I
can't be worried about it any longer. I've wasted half the morning
already."

Outside she recollects three insuperable objections to the red, and
four unanswerable arguments why she should have selected the grey.
She wonders would they change it, if she went back and asked to see
the shopwalker? Her friend, who wants her lunch, thinks not.

"That is what I hate about shopping," she says. "One never has time
to really THINK."

She says she shan't go to that shop again.