The Second Thoughts of an Idle Fellow. Джером К. Джером

“And then again, what I feel about the red is that it is so warm-looking. Red makes you feel warm even when you’re not warm. You know what I mean, dear!”

“Well then, why not have the red? It suits you—red.”

“No; do you really think so?”

“Well, when you’ve got a colour, I mean, of course!”

“Yes, that is the drawback to red. No, I think, on the whole, the grey is safer.”

“Then you will take the grey, madam?”

“Yes, I think I’d better; don’t you, dear?”

“I like it myself very much.”

“And it is good wearing stuff. I shall have it trimmed with—Oh! you haven’t cut it off, have you?”

“I was just about to, madam.”

“Well, don’t for a moment. Just let me have another look at the red. You see, dear, it has just occurred to me—that chinchilla would look so well on the red!”

“So it would, dear!”

“And, you see, I’ve got the chinchilla.”

“Then have the red. Why not?”

“Well, there is the hat I’m thinking of.”

“You haven’t anything else you could wear with that?”

“Nothing at all, and it would go so beautifully with the grey.—Yes, I think I’ll have the grey. It’s always a safe colour—grey.”

“Fourteen yards I think you said, madam?”

“Yes, fourteen yards will be enough; because I shall mix it with—One minute. You see, dear, if I take the grey I shall have nothing to wear with my black jacket.”

“Won’t it go with grey?”

“Not well—not so well as with red.”

“I should have the red then. You evidently fancy it yourself.”

“No, personally I prefer the grey. But then one must think of everything, and—Good gracious! that’s surely not the right time?”

“No, madam, it’s ten minutes slow. We always keep our clocks a little slow!”

“And we were too have been at Madame Jannaway’s at a quarter past twelve. How long shopping does take! Why, whatever time did we start?”

“About eleven, wasn’t it?”

“Half-past ten. I remember now; because, you know, we said we’d start at half-past nine. We’ve been two hours already!”

“And we don’t seem to have done much, do we?”

“Done literally nothing, and I meant to have done so much. I must go to Madame Jannaway’s. Have you got my purse, dear? Oh, it’s all right, I’ve got it.”

“Well, now you haven’t decided whether you’re going to have the grey or the red.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what I do want now. I had made up my mind a minute ago, and now it’s all gone again—oh yes, I remember, the red. Yes, I’ll have the red. No, I don’t mean the red, I mean the grey.”

“You were talking about the red last time, if you remember, dear.”

“Oh, so I was, you’re quite right. That’s the worst of shopping. Do you know I get quite confused sometimes.”

“Then you will decide on the red, madam?”

“Yes—yes, I shan’t do any better, shall I, dear? What do you think? You haven’t got any other shades of red, have you? This is such an ugly red.”

The shopman reminds her that she has seen all the other reds, and that this is the particular shade she selected and admired.

“Oh, very well,” she replies, with the air of one from whom all earthly cares are falling, “I must take that then, I suppose. I can’t be worried about it any longer. I’ve wasted half the morning already.”

Outside she recollects three insuperable objections to the red, and four unanswerable arguments why she should have selected the grey. She wonders would they change it, if she went back and asked to see the shop-walker? Her friend, who wants her lunch, thinks not.

“That is what I hate about shopping,” she says. “One never has time to really think.”

She says she shan’t go to that shop again.

We laugh

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