Pamela flung the Dunstable straw off her chestnut head, and turning with great dignity, “Inform Miss Falcon,” said she, “that I will attend her presently.”
After a due delay, which she spent in drumming with white fingers on the dressing-table, her eyes lost beyond her own reflection, in a far vision of millinery genius, Madame Mirabel’s partner appeared in the empty shop; sedate, her eyebrows well elevated into her white forehead, her hands folded on her trim waistband.
The slender figure in the brown silk cloak turned quickly with a rustle and flutter.
“You was wishful to speak with me, Madam?” questioned Miss Pounce, in her finest business manner.
“I want a hat for to-night, for Lady Teazle—for the third act, for the screen scene. Oh, I want something——”
Miss Pounce raised her hand.
“One moment, Madam.”
She gazed at the narrow, pale face, unrouged; the dark, ardent eyes.
“’Tis the most mortal-genteel creature I have ever seen,” thought Pamela.
“Not a word, Miss Falcon!” cried she. Then in the tone of a sibyl: “Black and white; or yet all white. But if you listen to me, black and white.”