And there was in Isabel's brown calico dress a faultlessness of fit, and a suitableness of color--a perfect harmony, like that of music.

There was real art, pure and refined, in her dress, as in the arrangement of the room.

Albert was angry with it, while he felt its effect; it was as though she had set herself there to be admired.

But nothing was further from her thought.
The artist works not for the eyes of others, but for his own, and Isabel Marlay would have taken not one whit less of pains if she could have been assured that no eye in the universe would look in upon that frontier-village parlor.
I said that Charlton was vexed.

He was vexed because he felt a weakness in himself that admired such "gewgaws," as he called everything relating to dress or artistic housekeeping.