age and not repellent of aspect. On a black dress she wore the smallest
white muslin apron that either Audrey or Miss Ingate had ever seen. She
kept pins in her mouth, but in other respects showed few eccentricities
beyond an extreme excitability. When at eight o'clock Mademoiselle's new
gown, promised for seven, had not arrived, Elise begged permission to use
Madame's salts. When the bell rang at eight-thirty, and a lackey brought in
an oval-shaped box with a long loop to it of leathern strap, she only just
managed not to kiss the lackey. The rapid movement of Mademoiselle and
Elise with the contents of the box from the drawing-room into
Mademoiselle's bedroom was the last rushing and swishing that preceded a
considerable peace.

Madame was absolutely ready, in her bedroom. In the large mirror of the
dark wardrobe she surveyed her victoriously young face, the magnificent
grey dress, the coiffure, the jewels, the spangled shoes, the fan; and the
ensemble satisfied her. She was intensely and calmly happy. No thought of
the past nor of the future, nor of what was going on in other parts of the
earth's surface could in the slightest degree impair her happiness. She had
done nothing herself, she had neither earned money nor created any of the
objects which adorned her; nor was she capable of doing the one or the
other. Yet she felt proud as well as happy, because she was young and
superbly healthy, and not unattractive. These were her high virtues. And
her attitude was so right that nobody would have disagreed with her.

Her left ear was listening for the sound, through the unlatched window, of
the arrival of the automobile with Musa and his fiddle inside it.

Then the door leading from Mademoiselle's bedroom opened sharply, and
Mademoiselle appeared, with her grey hair, her pale shining forehead, her
sardonic grin, and the new dress of those Empire colours, magenta and
green. Elise stood behind, trembling with satisfaction.

"Well----" Audrey began. But she heard the automobile, and told Elise to
run and be ready to open the front door of the flat.

"Rather showy, isn't it? Rather daring?" said Miss Ingate, advancing
self-consciously and self-deprecating.

"Winnie," answered Audrey. "It's a nice question between you and the Queen
of Sheba."

Suddenly Miss Ingate beheld in the mirror the masterpiece of an illustrious
male dressmaker-a masterpiece in which no touch of the last fashion was
abated-and little Essex Winn