It may be that it takes
nine tailors to make a man. It is certain that it takes only one to
make a well-dressed woman. Yet she does not always, of course, wear
tailor-made costumes, for on the Sundays that she spends on the
river, her impertinently poised straw hats, her tasteful ribbons,
her sailor's knots, her collars, her manly shirts, and the general
appropriateness of her dress, excite the envy of those who declare
that they would not imitate her for worlds, merely because nature
has made it impossible for them to be like her. Handsome she is
undoubtedly, with the beauty that comes of perfect health undisturbed
by thoughts of the why and the wherefore, or by anticipations of a
troublesome to-morrow. Yet to the casual observer who beholds this
admirably decorated creature, her conversation is disappointing. She
revels in slang. Catch-words and phrases which are not called vulgar
only because the better classes use them, come trippingly, but never
with a pleasant effect from her lips. Nor has she that sense of
reticence which is said to have been the distinguishing mark of
unmarried girlhood at some former period. That she should talk
frivolously on great subjects, if she talks on them at all, is only
to be expected.
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