Then we held a parliament of four, counting Cicely, over the great question of my frocks. Nancy was prime minister, and did all the talking, turning over the things. "Let me see, Mrs. Bergamot. Fetch us, if you have them--what you have--in flowered brocades--all colours--violet, pink, Italian posies, rose, myrtle, jessamine, anything; a watered tabby would become you, Kitty; any painted lawns,--silks and satins would be almost too old for you: do not forget the patches _à la grecque_--Kitty, be very careful of the patches; gauzes, what you have, Mrs. Bergamot; we want more hoods, a feathered muff, stomacher, Paris nets, _eau de Chypre_ or _eau de luce_, whichever you have; ear-rings are no use to you, my poor child. Pity that they did not pierce your ears: see the little drops dangling at mine. At any rate, thank Heaven that we neither of us want vermilion for the cheeks. Poor Peggy! she paints these two years and more. Ruffs, Mrs. Bergamot, and tippets, cardinals, any pretty thing in sarsnets, and what you have in purple. Kitty, purple is your colour. You shall have a dress all purple for the next ball. Ah! if I could carry purple! But you, Kitty, with your height and figure--stand up, child--why, she will be Juno herself!" "Truly," said the dressmaker, "as for Miss Pleydell, purple has come into fashion in pudding-time, as folk say." "A pretty woman," Nancy went on, examining me as if I had been a dummy, "not a pretty 'little thing' like me, is as rare in Epsom as a black swan or a white blackbird, or green yellow-hammer, or a red blue tit." When the dressmaker was gone, and we were left alone, Nancy began again, out of her great experience, to talk of the place we were in.