“I would have you in a sort of white satin bodice, all embroidered with tiny scarlet roses. And then a little black velvet coat over it, with very full sleeves, slashed, to show an inner sleeve of dark blue silk. And the lining of the velvet would be dark green; so you would have green, blue, white, and red all contrasted against the black of the velvet.” “That would be costly. And what skirt? A black skirt, I suppose?” “A very full black skirt. What do you think about a belt? Would you wear that belt of yours? The one with the Venetian silver-work?” “I don’t know about a belt. I thought you were going to design everything?” “Not a belt, then. And black shoes, with small, oval, cut-steel buckles.” “I should think that would be very pretty.” Her thoughts were wandering in England, down a lane of beech trees within sound of the sea, to a hillock of short grass, cropped by the sheep, where sea-pinks and sea-holly sprouted. “What are the sailors like?” she asked. “I saw you working up aloft with them. What are they like to talk to?” “Oh. They’re all right.” “I think they’re dreadful people.” “Why?” said Perrin. “What makes you think they’re dreadful?” “No nice man would take such a life. Oh. It must be dreadful. I shudder when I see them. What do they talk of, among themselves?” “They’re not very refined, of course. That man up on the yard there was once a slave in Virginia. You see he was transported for theft. He says he used to cry, sometimes, half through the night. He was so homesick.” “Oh, that’s terrible. But what home had he to be sick for?” “The ash-heap near a glass-house furnace. Somewhere in Chelsea, I think he said.” “And are the others all thieves, do you suppose?” “That ugly-looking dark fellow with the crooked eyes was once in a pirate’s crew, so the man on the yard said.” “Was he really? I don’t think that man is quite sane. He seems to glare so. Oh, ships are dreadful, dreadful.” “They’re beautiful, though. All---- Yes. Don’t you think all beautiful things seem to gather vileness about them?” “No, I don’t think so. Vileness? In what way, vileness?” “I think they do. You see ships with sailors, and pictures with picture-dealers, and tragedies---- Well. Tragedies with all sorts of people.” He ran on glibly, though with some confusion. The thought had occurred to him first in a moment of jealous anger that Olivia, so beautiful and sweet, should be a prey to the vile Stukeley. He blushed and stopped, thinking that she would read his thought. “Oh. But I don’t think that at all,” she said. “You ought to say that vileness gathers about beautiful things. A beautiful thing is a vigorous form of life, and all forms of life have parasites. The parasites don’t attach themselves to the things you speak of because the things are beautiful.” “No. I suppose not. Of course not,” he answered, rather puzzled, still thinking of Stukeley.