Civil service -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction
"Her dresses were made at the distinguished establishment of Madame
Mantalini, in Hanover Square; at least she was in the habit of getting
one dress there every other season, and this was quite sufficient among
her friends to give her a reputation for dealing in the proper quarter.
Once she had got a bonnet direct from Paris, which gave her ample
opportunity of expressing a frequent opinion not favourable to the
fabricators of a British article. She always took care that her shoes
had within them the name of a French cordonnier; and her gloves were
made to order in the Rue Du Bac, though usually bought and paid for in
Tottenham Court Road."
'What a false creature!' said Linda.
'False!' said Charley; 'and how is a girl to get along if she be not
false? What girl could live for a moment before the world if she were to
tell the whole truth about the get-up of her wardrobe--the patchings and
make-believes, the chipped ribbons and turned silks, the little bills
here, and the little bills there? How else is an allowance of £20 a year
to be made compatible with an appearance of unlimited income? How else
are young men to be taught to think that in an affair of dress money is
a matter of no moment whatsoever?'
'Oh, Charley, Charley, don't be slanderous,' said Mrs. Woodward.
'I only repeat what the editor says to me--I know nothing about it
myself. Only we are requested 'to hold the mirror up to nature,'--and to
art too, I believe. We are to set these things right, you know.'
'We--who are we?' said Katie.
'Why, the _Daily Delight_,' said Charley.
'But I hope there's nothing false in patching and turning,' said Mrs.
Woodward; 'for if there be, I'm the falsest woman alive.
To gar the auld claes look amaist as weel's the new
is, I thought, one of the most legitimate objects of a woman's
diligence.'
'It all depends on the spirit of the stitches,' said Charley the censor.
'Well, I must say I don't like mending up old clothes a bit better than
Charley does,' said Katie; 'but pray go on, mamma;' so Mrs. Woodward
continued to read.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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