"He's got it on," she whispered--"that awful crimson scarf." "Hoh!" said Condy, touching his scarf nervously, "it's--it's very swell.

Is it too loud ?" he asked uneasily.
Blix put her fingers in her ears; then: "Condy, you're a nice, amiable young man, and, if you're not brilliant, you're good and kind to your aged mother; but your scarfs and neckties are simply impossible." "Well, look at this room!" he shouted--they were in the parlor.

"You needn't talk about bad taste.

Those drapes--oh-h! those drapes!! Yellow, s'help me! And those bisque figures that you get with every pound of tea you buy; and this, this, THIS," he whimpered, waving his hands at the decorated sewer-pipe with its gilded cat-tails.

"Oh, speak to me of this; speak to me of art; speak to me of aesthetics.
Cat-tails, GILDED.