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 and pepperment-pepsin flavor to her speech—“I’m going to have a purple dress—a tailor-made purple dress—for Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, are you,” said Grace, putting away some 7$1/2$ gloves into the 6$3/4$ box. “Well, it’s me for red. You see more red on Fifth avenue. And the men all seem to like it.”

“I like purple best,” said Maida. “And old Schlegel has promised to make it for $8. It’s going to be lovely. I’m going to have a plaited skirt and a blouse coat trimmed with a band of galloon under a white cloth collar with two rows of—”

“Sly boots!” said Grace with an educated wink.

“—soutache braid over a surpliced white vest; and a plaited basque and—”

“Sly boots—sly boots!” repeated Grace.

“—plaited gigot sleeves with a drawn velvet ribbon over an inside cuff. What do you mean by saying that?”

“You think Mr. Ramsay likes purple. I heard him say yesterday he thought some of the dark shades of red were stunning.”

“I don’t care,” said Maida. “I prefer purple, and them that don’t like it can just take the other side of the street.”

Which suggests the thought that after all, the followers of purple may be subject to slight delusions. Danger is near when a maiden thinks she can wear