The Camera Eye*

We were seated in the lobby of the hotel as she walked swiftly by us, turned the corner sharply, and was gone.
"That’s an uncommonly good-looking girl," I said to my wife, who was deep in a crossword puzzle.
"Do you mean the one in that imitation blue taffeta dress with the green and red flowered design?"
"The girl that just walked by."
"Yes," said my wife, "with that dowdy rayon dress on. It’s a copy of one I saw at Hattie Carnegie’s, and a poor copy at that. You’d think, though, that she’d have better taste than to wear a chartreuse hat with it, especially with her bleacher hair."
"Bleached? I didn’t notice her hair was bleached."
"Good heavens, you could almost smell the peroxide. I don't mind a bit of make-up provided it looks fairly natural. But you could scrape that rouge off with a knife. They ought to add a course in make-up to the curriculum at Smith."
"Smith? Why Smith?"
"From her class pin, of course. You must have noticed it hanging from her charm bracelet."
"I wasn't looking at her wrist."
"I’ll bet you weren’t. Nor at those fat legs of hers, either. A woman with legs like that shouldn't wear high-heeled patent-leather shoes."
"I thought she was a very pretty girl," I said apologetically.
"Well you may be right," said my wife. "I was busy with my puzzle and didn’t notice her particularly. What’s the name of a President of the United States in six letters, beginning with T?"

* Taken from The camera Eye, from The Atlantic Monthly, December 1952