_Cummings_, joining his friend in contemplation of the hat and shawl: "Yes; it's an arrival beyond all question. Those are a _lady's_ things. I should think that was a Paris hat." They remain looking at the things some moments in silence. _Bartlett._--"How should a Paris hat get here? I know the landlord wasn't expecting it. But it can't be going to stay; it's here through some caprice. It may be a transient of quality, but it's a transient. I suppose we shall see the young woman belonging to it at dinner." He sets the hat on his fist, and holds it at arm's length from him. "What a curious thing it is about clothes"-- _Cummings._--"Don't, Bartlett, don't!" _Bartlett._--"Why?" _Cummings._--"I don't know. It makes me feel as if you were offering an indignity to the young lady herself." _Bartlett._--"You express my idea exactly. This frippery has not only the girl's personality but her very spirit in it. This hat looks like her; you can infer the whole woman from it, body and soul. It has a conscious air, and so has the shawl, as if they had been eavesdropping and had understood everything we were saying. They know all about my heart-break, and so will she as soon as she puts them on; she will be interested in me. The hat's in good taste, isn't it?" _Cummings_, with sensitive reverence for the millinery which his friend handles so daringly.-- "Exquisite it seems to me; but I don't know about such things." _Bartlett._--"Neither do I; but I feel about them. Besides, a painter and glazier sees some things that are hidden from even a progressive minister. Let us interpret the lovely being from her hat. This knot of pale-blue flowers betrays her a blonde; this lace, this mass of silky, fluffy, cob-webby what-do-you-call-it, and this delicate straw fabric show that she is slight; a stout woman would kill it, or die in the attempt. And I fancy--here pure inspiration comes to my aid--that she is tallish. I'm afraid of her! No--wait! The shawl has something to say." He takes it up and catches it across his arm, where he scans it critically. "I don't know that I understand the shawl, exactly. It proves her of a good height,--a short woman wouldn't, or had better not, wear a shawl,--but this black colour: should you think it was mourning? Have we a lovely young widow among us?" _Cummings._--"I don't see how it could go with the hat, if it were." _Bartlett._--"True; the hat is very pensive in tone, but it isn't mourning. This shawl's very light, it's very warm; I construct from it a pretty invalid." He lets the shawl slip down his arm to his hand, and flings it back upon the sofa. "We return from the young lady's heart to her brain--where she carries her sentiments. She has a nice taste in perfumes, Cummings: faintest violet; that goes with the blue. Of what religion is a young lady who uses violet, my reverend friend?" _Cummings._--"Bartlett, you're outrageous. Put down that hat!"