She professed herself tired and cross, and flung herself into my
chair....
"George," she cried, "the Things women are! Do _I_ stink of money?"
"Lunching?" I asked.
She nodded.
"Plutocratic ladies?"
"Yes."
"Oriental type?"
"Oh! Like a burst hareem!... Bragging of possessions.... They feel you.
They feel your clothes, George, to see if they are good!"
I soothed her as well as I could. "They ARE Good aren't they?" I said.
"It's the old pawnshop in their blood," she said, drinking tea; and then
in infinite disgust, "They run their hands over your clothes--they paw
you."
I had a moment of doubt whether perhaps she had not been discovered in
possession of unsuspected forgeries. I don't know. After that my eyes
were quickened, and I began to see for myself women running their hands
over other women's furs, scrutinising their lace, even demanding to
handle jewelry, appraising, envying, testing. They have a kind of
etiquette. The woman who feels says, "What beautiful sables?" "What
lovely lace?" The woman felt admits proudly: "It's Real, you know,"
or disavows pretension modestly and hastily, "It's Rot Good.
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