black cloth; at his trousers, beautifully creased, his nicely-tied cravat, and his silvery beard in perfect trim; and I smile silently. I shall not tell him what comes to my mind: he would directly begin to protest that his clothing is as unpretentious as can be; neither dirty nor untidy, but nothing more. Now all these half-conscious, but innumerable, little insincerities, are distasteful to me: there is something unmanly about them.
"Vanity is nothing but the aesthetic feeling in its maturity. Undoubtedly it contains an element of coquetry, but the latter has its source in the reproductive instinct." This I say, seriously, but speaking quickly, to hide what I feel; adding, "It is by a woman's clothing that her individuality and degree of artistic culture are made known."
"Individuality? In the fetters of fashion? Bah!"
"Well, what is fashion after all? It only expresses variations in the preferences of human beings: just like the various periods in literature and art and history."
Smilowicz interferes. "Yes, but these variations of preference should be free, not enforced."
