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It had been like dressing a doll, she explained, beaming.
An edifying pastime for an adult woman! I did not utter this
sentiment, for she would rightly have styled me the most
ungrateful of unhung wretches.
Carlotta, then, had followed her about like a perambulatory doll,
upon which she had fitted all the finery she could lay her hands
on. Apparently the atmosphere of the great shops had acted on
Carlotta like an anaesthetic. She had moved in a sensuous dream
of drapery, wherein the choice-impulse was paralysed. The only
articles upon which, in an unclouded moment, she had set her
heart--and that with a sudden passion of covetousness--were a
pair of red, high-heeled shoes and a cheap red parasol.
"You have no idea what it means," said Mrs. McMurray, "to buy
_everything_ that a woman needs."
I replied that I had a respectful distaste for transcendental
philosophy.
"From a paper of pins to an opera-cloak," she continued.
"I'm afraid, dear Mrs. McMurray, an opera-cloak is not the
superior limit of a woman's needs," said I.


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