"Now, don't, Christopher. This is no laughing matter. Do you mean you
were not ashamed of your wife? I was."

"No, I was not; you had but one rival; a very young lady, wise
before her age; a blonde, with violet eyes. She was dressed in light
mauve-colored silk, without a single flounce, or any other tomfoolery
to fritter away the sheen and color of an exquisite material; her sunny
hair was another wave of color, wreathed with a thin line of white
jessamine flowers closely woven, that scented the air. This girl was the
moon of that assembly, and you were the sun."

"I never even saw her."

"Eyes and no eyes. She saw you, and said, 'Oh, what a beautiful
creature!' for I heard her. As for the old stagers, whom you admire so,
their faces were all clogged with powder, the pores stopped up, the true
texture of the skin abolished. They looked downright nasty, whenever
you or that young girl passed by them. Then it was you saw to what a
frightful extent women are got up in our day, even young women, and
respectable women. No, Rosa, dress can do little for you; you have
beauty--real beauty."

"Beauty! That passes unnoticed, unless one is well dressed."

"Then what an obscure pair the Apollo Belvidere and the Venus de Medicis
must be."

"Oh! they are dressed--in marble."