a genius, Edythe.”
“Well, I’m pretty good in my own line,” acknowledged Miss Dubarry modestly.
She admired Miss Pettigrew a moment.
“Now!” she said briskly. “The frock.”
“Are you sure you won’t have the green and gold brocade?” asked Miss LaFosse wistfully.
“No. I will not,” said Miss Dubarry firmly. “Much too elaborate for Guinevere. She hasn’t the right atmosphere for it. Not vulgar enough, if you want the exact truth. If you weren’t the kind of woman who can wear anything and look right, Delysia, you’d have no taste in clothes at all. Guinevere can’t just wear anything. She’s got to be right.”
“Anything you say,” said Miss LaFosse meekly.
“The black velvet,” said Miss Dubarry.
They put it on. For a breathless second they hardly dared look. But it fitted. Not perfectly, but enough not to notice.
“I thought she was about my figure,” said Miss LaFosse with a sigh of relief.
“Thank heavens,” thought Miss Pettigrew wildly and extravagantly, “for short rations and no middle-aged spread.”
“A necklace,” said Miss Dubarry. “Something chaste and ladylike.”
“There’re my pearls,” said Miss LaFosse. “They’re not very good ones, but who knows?”
“The very thing.”
“No,” broke in Miss Pettigrew very firmly. “I will not wear any one’s pearls. I should not enjoy a single minute thinking I might lose them. Thank you very much, but no.”
Miss Dubarry and Miss LaFosse looked at each other.
“She means it,” said Miss LaFosse. “When Guinevere says no she means no.”
“The jade ear-rings,” said Miss Dubarry. “The necklace to match. Glittering stones are not Guinevere’s medium of expression.”
Miss Pettigrew trembled towards further speech, but Miss LaFosse said hastily, “They’re only imitation. You needn’t worry. A relic of my less palmy days, but Edythe always liked them.”
They went on.
“And tonight,” said Miss Dubarry, “she must have a spray. Something delicate, mainly green and cream, to carry out the colour touch, but one single flower may have a brilliant colour. And real flowers. Not artificial. Real flowers express her personality…something fresh and natural about her.”
“Unspoiled,” said Miss LaFosse.
“And with her brains.” Miss Dubarry shook her head.
“Almost unbelievable,” agreed Miss LaFosse.
“You’d have thought the dictatorial air.”
“Not a sign of it.”
“Thank God!” said Miss Dubarry.
“I’ll choose it myself,” promised Miss LaFosse.
“You’d better. Funny, how these brainy people so seldom know how to look after themselves. Minds must be above it. No insult meant.”
“None taken,” said Miss Pettigrew.
“And now,” said Miss Dubarry, “the hair.”
She let down Miss Pettigrew’s locks.
“Absolutely straight, but the kind that takes a perfect Marcel. Sometimes if there’s a trace of natural wave it doesn’t do so well…oh!” Miss Dubarry looked blankly at Miss LaFosse. “You don’t need curling tongs. Your hair’s natural. You won’t have any. We’re sunk.”
“We are not. I have,” said Miss LaFosse with pride. “You remember the night Molly Leroy lost her curls in the rain coming here and had draggly ends all evening, and it spoiled her night…well, ever since then I’ve kept a pair for my guests in case of need. And I got a gadget as well to heat them with.”
Miss LaFosse produced the whole outfit like a conjurer producing a rabbit from a hat. Miss Dubarry set to work.
“No time for a shampoo. Pity, but it can’t be helped. Fortunately her hair isn’t greasy. Just a few loose waves. We haven’t time for an artistic dressing.”
Her clever fingers flew. Miss Pettigrew sat almost unconscious with excitement. She had never, in all her life before, interfered with the simple gifts presented by nature. “Why,” asked her mother, “attempt to improve on God’s handiwork? Will He be pleased? No. He gave you that face and
“Well, I’m pretty good in my own line,” acknowledged Miss Dubarry modestly.
She admired Miss Pettigrew a moment.
“Now!” she said briskly. “The frock.”
“Are you sure you won’t have the green and gold brocade?” asked Miss LaFosse wistfully.
“No. I will not,” said Miss Dubarry firmly. “Much too elaborate for Guinevere. She hasn’t the right atmosphere for it. Not vulgar enough, if you want the exact truth. If you weren’t the kind of woman who can wear anything and look right, Delysia, you’d have no taste in clothes at all. Guinevere can’t just wear anything. She’s got to be right.”
“Anything you say,” said Miss LaFosse meekly.
“The black velvet,” said Miss Dubarry.
They put it on. For a breathless second they hardly dared look. But it fitted. Not perfectly, but enough not to notice.
“I thought she was about my figure,” said Miss LaFosse with a sigh of relief.
“Thank heavens,” thought Miss Pettigrew wildly and extravagantly, “for short rations and no middle-aged spread.”
“A necklace,” said Miss Dubarry. “Something chaste and ladylike.”
“There’re my pearls,” said Miss LaFosse. “They’re not very good ones, but who knows?”
“The very thing.”
“No,” broke in Miss Pettigrew very firmly. “I will not wear any one’s pearls. I should not enjoy a single minute thinking I might lose them. Thank you very much, but no.”
Miss Dubarry and Miss LaFosse looked at each other.
“She means it,” said Miss LaFosse. “When Guinevere says no she means no.”
“The jade ear-rings,” said Miss Dubarry. “The necklace to match. Glittering stones are not Guinevere’s medium of expression.”
Miss Pettigrew trembled towards further speech, but Miss LaFosse said hastily, “They’re only imitation. You needn’t worry. A relic of my less palmy days, but Edythe always liked them.”
They went on.
“And tonight,” said Miss Dubarry, “she must have a spray. Something delicate, mainly green and cream, to carry out the colour touch, but one single flower may have a brilliant colour. And real flowers. Not artificial. Real flowers express her personality…something fresh and natural about her.”
“Unspoiled,” said Miss LaFosse.
“And with her brains.” Miss Dubarry shook her head.
“Almost unbelievable,” agreed Miss LaFosse.
“You’d have thought the dictatorial air.”
“Not a sign of it.”
“Thank God!” said Miss Dubarry.
“I’ll choose it myself,” promised Miss LaFosse.
“You’d better. Funny, how these brainy people so seldom know how to look after themselves. Minds must be above it. No insult meant.”
“None taken,” said Miss Pettigrew.
“And now,” said Miss Dubarry, “the hair.”
She let down Miss Pettigrew’s locks.
“Absolutely straight, but the kind that takes a perfect Marcel. Sometimes if there’s a trace of natural wave it doesn’t do so well…oh!” Miss Dubarry looked blankly at Miss LaFosse. “You don’t need curling tongs. Your hair’s natural. You won’t have any. We’re sunk.”
“We are not. I have,” said Miss LaFosse with pride. “You remember the night Molly Leroy lost her curls in the rain coming here and had draggly ends all evening, and it spoiled her night…well, ever since then I’ve kept a pair for my guests in case of need. And I got a gadget as well to heat them with.”
Miss LaFosse produced the whole outfit like a conjurer producing a rabbit from a hat. Miss Dubarry set to work.
“No time for a shampoo. Pity, but it can’t be helped. Fortunately her hair isn’t greasy. Just a few loose waves. We haven’t time for an artistic dressing.”
Her clever fingers flew. Miss Pettigrew sat almost unconscious with excitement. She had never, in all her life before, interfered with the simple gifts presented by nature. “Why,” asked her mother, “attempt to improve on God’s handiwork? Will He be pleased? No. He gave you that face and
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