"And the flowers under my bonnet, monsieur?" I asked. "They are very little ones?"
"Keep them little, then", said he. "Permit them not to become full-blown".
"And the bow, monsieur—the bit of ribbon?"
"Va pour le ruban!" was the propitious answer.
And so we settled it.
"Well done, Lucy Snowe!" cried I to myself, "you have come in for a pretty lecture—brought on yourself a 'rude savant', and all through your wicked fondness for worldly vanities! Who would have thought it? You deemed yourself a melancholy sober-sides enough! Miss Fanshawe there regards you as a second Diogenes. M. de Bassompierre, the other day, politely turned the conversation when it ran on the wild gifts of the actress Vashti, because, as he kindly said, 'Miss Snowe looked uncomfortable'. Dr. John Bretton knows you only as 'quiet Lucy'—'a creature inoffensive as a shadow'; he has said, and you have heard him say it: 'Lucy's disadvantages spring from over-gravity in tastes and manner—want of color in character and costume'. Such are your own and your friends' impressions; and behold! there starts up a little man, differing diametrically from all these, roundly charging you with being too airy and cheery—too volatile and versatile—too flowery and colory. This harsh little man—this pitiless censor—gathers up all your poor scattered sins of vanity, your luckless chiffon of rose-color, your small fringe of a wreath, your small scrap of ribbon, your silly bit of lace, and calls you to account for the lot, and for each item. You are well habituated to be passed by as a shadow in Life's sunshine: it its a new thing to see one testily lifting his hand to screen his eyes, because you tease him with an obtrusive ray".
