Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day by Winifred Watson Page A

that hair. He meant you to have them.” Miss Pettigrew sat savouring to the full a blissful sense of adventure, of wrongdoing: a dashing feeling of being a little fast: a worldly sense of being in the fashion: a wicked feeling of guilty ecstasy. She enjoyed it. She enjoyed it very much.
    “Finished,” said Miss Dubarry. “A side parting. A few, loose, negligent waves back from the brow—the impression of being natural and just a little carelessly dressed. A sophisticated coil at the nape of the neck—the idea of worldly poise for all the carelessness.”
    “There.” She stood away from her handiwork.
    “My Holy Aunt!” breathed Miss LaFosse. “Would you believe that hair can make such a difference to a person?”
    “Am I ready?” quavered Miss Pettigrew.
    “Ready,” said Miss Dubarry.
    “Fixed,” exclaimed Miss LaFosse.
    “A satisfactory job,” agreed Miss Dubarry modestly.
    “I don’t believe my eyes yet,” marvelled Miss LaFosse.
    “It’s a good subject,” said Miss Dubarry. She allowed enthusiasm to overcome modesty. “Though I says it as shouldn’t, I’m proud of my work.”
    “Can I look?” implored Miss Pettigrew.
    “The mirror’s waiting,” said Miss Dubarry.
    Miss Pettigrew stood up. She turned round. She stared.
    “No!” whispered Miss Pettigrew.
    “Yes!” chorused the Misses Dubarry and LaFosse joyously.
    “It isn’t me,” gasped Miss Pettigrew.
    “You in the flesh,” said Miss Dubarry.
    “You as man intended,” encouraged Miss LaFosse.
    Then they were both silent. This was a sacred moment. This was Miss Pettigrew’s moment. They gave it the honour of silent admiration.
    Miss Pettigrew stared. She caught the back of a chair for support. She felt faint. Another woman stood there. A woman of fashion: poised, sophisticated, finished, fastidiously elegant. A woman of no age. Obviously not young. Obviously not old. Who would care about age? No one. Not in a woman of that charming exterior. The rich, black velvet of the gown was of so deep and lustrous a sheen it glowed like colour. An artist had created it. It had the wicked, brilliant cut that made its wearer look both daring and chaste. It intrigued the beholder. He had to discover which. Its severe lines made her look taller. The ear-rings made her look just a little, well, experienced. No other word. The necklace gave her elegance. She, Miss Pettigrew, elegant.
    That delicate flush! Was it natural? Who could tell? That loosely curling hair! No ends, no wisps, no lank drooping. Was it her own? She didn’t recognize it. Those eyes, so much more blue than memory recalled! Those artfully shaded brows and lashes! That mouth, with its faint, provocative redness! Was it coloured? Only by kissing it would a man find a satisfactory answer.
    She smiled. The woman smiled back, assured, composed. Where was the meek carriage, the deprecating smile, the timid shyness, the dowdy figure, the ugly hair, the sallow complexion? Gone. Gone under the magic of ‘Du Barry’s’ expert owner and manager.
    Miss Pettigrew, rapt, thrilled, transported, gazed at herself as her dreams had painted her. A lump came into her throat. Her eyes became misty.
    “Guinevere,” screamed Miss Dubarry in a panic. “For God’s sake, control yourself.”
    “Guinevere,” gasped Miss LaFosse. “Control, I implore you. Your make–up;. Remember your duty to your make–up;.”
    Miss Pettigrew made a valiant effort.
    “Most certainly,” said Miss Pettigrew with dignity.
    “‘England expects!’ I am quite aware that due care is essential.”
    “Shoes,” said Miss Dubarry.
    Miss Pettigrew tried on a pair.
    “Why!” marvelled Miss Pettigrew. “They are a trifle too large.”
    “Well, that’s a blessing,” said Miss LaFosse thankfully. “It’s better than too small. We’ll stop and buy a pair of soles.”
    “Now her coat,” said Miss Dubarry.
    Miss Pettigrew had a terrified vision of all her splendour being eclipsed by her shabby brown tweed. But