Mrs. Murden anticipated the arrival of the purple silk with dread forebodings. She hoped her husband would not be at home if the bill came with it. "Making up" was a trifle when she sewed with Miss Johns, and found her own trimmings. She knew that Mr. Murden had not calculated on any extra demands, the dress once purchased. Besides, he had been losing money all the week, and besides, she had anticipated the last dollar of her month's allowance. She was more abstracted than ever as the time drew near.
But it came, and there was no help for it--on Saturday evening, the night of all others when Mr. Murden was sure to be at home. It was very, very stylish; the trimming, a broad embossed velvet ribbon, matched the shade to perfection. Mr. Murden wanted to have it tried on at once, and did not think the absence of a chemisette detracted at all from the _tout ensemble_.
He felt very much pleased with himself for having allowed his pretty wife to have her own way, and gave her a kiss by way of approval to her taste, which chaste matrimonial salute was interrupted by the reappearance of their one servant, to say that the girl was waiting in the hall, as the bill was receipted.
"Ah, the bill!" There it was, pinned conspicuously on the flap of the basque. Mr. Murden detached it, and read the amount: "$13 29 cts. Received payment, Ann Stringer."
"Good gracious, my dear, what a mistake! More than half as much as the dress cost!"
Mrs. Murden caught at the straw. Perhaps it was a mistake, and the wrong bill had been sent to her. But there was no such good fortune; there it was, in Miss Elbert's own hard, angular handwriting, item by item. And Mr. Murden paid it on the spot, for he never allowed a bill to be presented twice; but he went out without returning to the parlor, and shut the front door with a bang, to countermand the new overcoat which he had been measured for that afternoon, and which he needed badly.
It was weeks before the purple silk was again alluded to by him, and spring before Mrs. Murden could afford to purchase undersleeves and a chemisette to wear with it. She walked to church in the mazarine blue beside the shabby overcoat, with its threadbare sleeves and rusty collar, a humbler and a better woman. It was only when Mr. Murden discovered what a cure the surfeit of finery in Mrs. Stringer's fitting-room had wrought, that he quite pardoned the folly and extravagance of the purple silk. "For," as Mrs. Murden said, "there must always be a great many people better dressed, spend what she would, so where was the use? And, after all, comfort was the thing, not show."