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THE ARCHBISHOP. I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before. I am the Archbishop of York. MRS LUTESTRING. Surely we have met, Mr Archbishop. I remember your face. I also have some association with your face, Mrs Lutestring. Something like a door opening continually and revealing you. And a smile of welcome when you recognized me. Did you ever open a door for me, I wonder?
Here was a young gentleman who never heard of the Lord Mayor's scale of charges. And what was a shilling to such as he! Intricate puzzle, indeed! Any booby might have read upon the young man's face that secret which is written for all, high and low, rich and poor alike. My new lace handkerchief was down upon the seat, lest Dolly soil her bright pink lutestring.
The drawing room was brilliantly lighted: there was a constant stir of peacock silk, of yellow and apple green and coral lutestring, of white shoulders, in the gold radiance of candles like stiff rows of narcissi. Caroline drifted finally into the chamber back of the dining room, and they could hear the tenuous vibrations of the clavichord. Soon David had disappeared.
BURGE-LUBIN. My dear lady: our Chinese and colored friends are perfectly happy. They are twenty times better off here than they would be in China or Liberia. They do their work admirably; and in doing it they set us free for higher employments. MRS LUTESTRING. You are not really doing higher work.
Were I to conjecture, I should say that the whole will centre, before it is long, in Mr. Pitt and Co., the present being an heterogeneous jumble of youth and caducity, which cannot be efficient. Charles Townshend calls the present a Lutestring Ministry; fit only for the summer.
Presently even these ceased or passed from view, and then succeeded what Janice thought a very "mopish" two hours, terminated at last by the arrival of the aide with his invitation, which sent her to her room for a little extra prinking. "If I had only worn my lutestring," she sighed.
I will not recount the history of that defeat, my dears. Nay, to this day I know not how she accomplished the matter. Not once had she asked me to remain, or referred to my going. Nor had I spoken of it, weakling that I was. She had come down in the pink lutestring, smiling but pale; and traces of tears in her eyes, I thought. From that moment I knew that I was defeated.
Since you ask me, more well, not more attractive: I do not deny that you have an excellent appearance but I will say, richer. More Venetian. Tropical. 'The shadowed livery of the burnished sun. MRS LUTESTRING. Our women, and their favorite story writers, begin already to talk about men with golden complexions. BURGE-LUBIN. Well, what of it, madam?
Her white satin petticoat showed its rich lustre under a lutestring gown of palest rose brocaded with silver sprigs and looped with silver ribbon and pink satin roses. Costly lace clung about her neck and arms, long kid gloves covered her little hands and wrists and met the delicate sleeve ruffles, and about her white throat a great pink topaz clasped a single string of pearls.
Frankly, I do not recognize the parlor maid. BURGE-LUBIN. Whats a parlor maid? MRS LUTESTRING. An extinct species. A woman in a black dress and white apron, who opened the house door when people knocked or rang, and was either your tyrant or your slave. You really don't look it. I am convinced. It's true. Now call up the Lunatic Asylum, Confucius; and tell them to send an ambulance for me.
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