we should be happier. True, it is a little thing, but we are a little race, and what is the use of our pretending otherwise, and spoiling fun? Let philosophers get themselves up like old crows if they like. But let me be a butterfly.
Women, at all events, ought to dress prettily. It is their duty. They are the flowers of the earth, and were meant to show it up. We abuse them a good deal, we men; but, goodness knows, the old world would be dull enough without their pretty dresses and fair faces. How they brighten up every place they come into! What a sunny commotion they—relations, of course—make in our dingy bachelor chambers! and what a delightful litter their ribbons and laces, and gloves and hats, and parasols and 'kerchiefs make! It is as if a wandering rainbow had dropt in to pay us a visit.
It is one of the chief charms of the summer, to my mind, the way our little maids come out in pretty colours. I like to see the pink and blue and white, glancing between the trees, dotting the green fields, and flashing back the sunlight. You can see the bright colours such a long way off. There are four white dresses climbing a hill in front of my window now. I can see them distinctly, though it is three miles away. I thought, at first, they were milestones out for a lark. It's so nice to be able to see the darlings a long way off. Especially if they happen to be your wife and your mother-in-law.
