This provokes a new decision, and causes a great rummaging in drawers and presses and closets until the gown, fragrant with last year's lavender, is discovered, when the toilet too long neglected starts afresh. "What patches, ma'am?" says Betty. "My Cupid's bow and the two tears of widowhood." "What scents, mamma?" asks Phyllida. "My Citron Essence, child." Then shoes are buckled, stockings are gartered, and a black mantua placed gently round her shoulders. One more touch of powder, one more brush from the rouge pot, one more flounce and one more flirt while the watchet ribbands in the cap are hastily changed to ribbands of palest apple-green, and a pair of emerald snaps are quickly fastened. "Does my hoop sit straight? Oh! Lud! I vow I shall be late." A breathless moment and, in place of the mantua, a tippet of pheasants' feathers is adjusted. Down the Crescent is heard the opening of many doors. Phyllida runs to the window, draws back the curtains so that the sun streams in upon the sicklied candles. "Has the Beau appeared yet?" asks Mrs. Courteen. "Here he comes, and oh! mamma, he is wearing a suit of olive-green." "What great good fortune! what taste I shall display. Green is certainly the fashionable colour," and Mrs. Courteen began to trill to a tune of her own invention.... "I shall be _a la mode_, I shall be _a la mode_ and very _bon ton_ and _tres bon ton_." Radiant, she descends the stairs followed by Betty carrying an enormous glass goblet. Outside, rubicund Thomas with heavily knobbed cane awaits her. The widow glances over her shoulder at the crowds swinging down the street, all equipped with glass goblets of various sizes and shapes. She throws an anxious glance towards the head of the procession. The Beau is certainly in green of a shade slightly darker than her own but, nevertheless, distinctly comparable. She tosses her cap in anticipation of the envied triumph and sails in the general direction. And you, Achates, who have accompanied me so early in the morning to the toilets of some of our principal characters, pray give yourself the additional trouble of thinking what a Great Man he must be to induce these butterflies and moths of fashion to sally forth Cap a Pie perfect at half-past eight o'clock of a February morning. "Let Bath be true to her bedgowns," he wrote, "in Curtain Wells we are ignorant that men and women undress." When we think of that apoplectick Circumference which so lately protruded, we can heartily assent to his opinion. _Chapter the Second_ THE PUMP ROOM