Not one in a thousand knows how to put on a bonnet: they set it on one side like a disagreeable recollection; or bolt upright, as if they wanted to realise Shakespeare's worst of puns,—"and she, like France, was at war with her hair (heir)." No such very great degree of genius can be displayed in the rest of the toilette. The dress has been chosen—it fits you à ravir—it has simply to be put on with mathematical accuracy: but the bonnet is the triumph of taste,—you must exert your intellect,—your destiny is in your own hands.
Emily was successful: brought a little forward on the face, its shade was the coquetry of timidity; and the dark eyes were more piquant from the slight difficulty of meeting them. Her dress was the deepest Parma violet,—so beautiful a colour in itself,—so picturesque in its associations,—the crimson of war and the purple of royalty blended in one: it opened at the throat, whose whiteness was, if possible, softened by that most aërial of inventions, a blonde ruff: finish the costume with gloves, whose tint was of the same delicate hue as the hat; put the feet into slippers fit for Cinderella, if she had worn black satin instead of glass,—and you have an exact idea of the
