“Whatever are you doing, my dear?” Asked Tata Sous-sus of Abigail Hoffenhoff.
“It’s called crochet,” replied Princess Pirouette’s official dresser.
“It looks difficult. With my poor eyes and arthritic fingers, I could never manage.”
“That’s a shame, my lady. It’s a wonderful way of passing time.”
“Well, what are you making?” Tata Sous-sus looked suspiciously at the lace concoction before her eyes.
“It’s called an antimacassar,” answered Abigail. “You throw them over the backs of sofas and chairs to keep them from getting soiled. They’re ever so practical.”
In horror, Tata Sous-sus’ hands flew up to her cheeks of their own accord. “Well, I never! I would never allow you to disrupt the beautiful lines of Her Highness’ furniture!”
“Not to worry, my lady,” answered Abigail patiently. “I’m sending them to my mother. You see, the men in my mother’s household don’t wear wigs.”
“They don’t!” At this point, Tata Sous-sus was in a high dungeon. “Whatever do they do?”
“They put Macassar oil in their hair to make it shiny and lie flat.”
Tata Sous-sus began to fan herself furiously. “My goodness! You foreigners certainly do have some strange habits.”