"Miladi is in a little error!" she said rapidly and with soft
persuasiveness. "It is _la mode_. Miladi has perhaps lived in a country
where the fashions are different. But if she will ask the most amiable
Sieur Bruce-Errington, she will find that her dress is quite in keeping
with _les convenances_."
A pained blush crimsoned Thelma's fair cheek. "I do not like to ask my
husband such a thing," she said slowly, "but I must. For I could not
wear this dress without shame. I cannot think he would wish me to appear
in it as you have made it--but--" She paused, and taking up the
objectionable bodice, she added gently--"You will kindly wait here,
madame, and I will see what Sir Philip says."
And she retired, leaving the _modiste_ in a state of much astonishment,
approaching resentment. The idea was outrageous,--a woman with such
divinely fair skin,--a woman with the bosom of a Venus, and arms of a
shape to make sculptors rave,--and yet she actually wished to hide these
beauties from the public gaze! It was ridiculous--utterly
ridiculous,--and Madame sat fuming impatiently, and sniffing the air in
wonder and scorn.
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