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At that Miss Coblenz sat back on her tall wooden heels, mauve spats crinkling. "Well, you're a merry little future mother-in-law, momsie!" "It ain't that, baby.
He wore a lemon-coloured vest and lemon-yellow spats. "How d'you do?" he said, gazing at me out of those queer eyes of his. "I hear that you admire my work." "You have been misinformed," I replied. "Your work interests me, because I am a student of nervous and mental diseases." "Ah. Psychotherapy." "All of the characters in your poem, 'The Vision of Helen, are neurotics.
Old Heythorp opened his eyes. That sleek cub, Joe Pillin's son! What a young pup-with his round eyes, and his round cheeks, and his little moustache, his fur coat, his spats, his diamond pin! "How's your father?" he said. "Thanks, rather below par, worryin' about his ships. Suppose you haven't any news for him, sir?" Old Heythorp nodded.
Everything that girl has on except her stockings and gloves has been remodelled from her old stuff. Her pumps are not suitable at all for walking; they are evening pumps, of a style two years old at that. But she has covered them with spats, so that no one will suspect that she wears them from necessity, not choice." "Well, I'll be " Dicky uttered his favorite expletive.
'This striped one seems a little looser, he said; or, 'If you'd let out the trousers at the bottom, I think they would do. But in the end all he got from the box was two pairs of pink silk pyjamas, the Homburg hat, several pairs of gloves, spats, and gaiters, and half a dozen neckties that no one else would wear.
In so illogical a world, the reader must not be allowed to think that Molly Brownwell lamented the folly of mourning for a handsome young gentleman in blue serge with white spats on his shoes and a Byronic collar and a fluffy necktie of the period.
He carried a stick with a gold band around it, his spats were of a light and wonderful tan, and in his hand, in place of the usual greenish-brown veteran, he held a grey fedora of precisely the shape and shade worn by His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, on the occasion of that happiest of events, his recent visit to our country.
We were led by members of this Department to believe that the Boer was a cowardly kind of veldt pariah, a degenerate offshoot of a fine old parent stock. Well, the Boer is nothing of the kind. He is not in any way degenerate. He is a good fighting man, according to his lights. He does not wear a stand-up collar, nor an eyeglass, nor spats to his veldtschoon.
The man in the white spats whom we had seen in the Bois identified Madame as Marie Richaud, a Frenchwoman who had lived in Philadelphia for several years, and who had been implicated two years before in the great frauds on the Bordeaux branch of the Société Générale. Madame airily denied any knowledge of it. She had only arrived in Paris with her husband from Rome a few days before, she declared.
It's in my bag. Nice old Bocky!" Bock, who was unaccustomed to spats, was examining them after his own fashion. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Mifflin. "We are delighted to see you. I hope you'll be happy with us, but I rather doubt it. Mr. Mifflin is a hard man to get along with." "Oh, I'm sure of it!" cried Titania. "I mean, I'm sure I shall be happy!
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