Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. “Do you like my dress?” “Yes, the dress is beautiful, but you are much more beautiful than any dress. I do not choose the vicomte, for that would be foolish. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. It did not shock her; it amazed her, interested her beyond measure.
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