“And is this your—your daughter?”
Steptoe explained, not without dignity, that the young lady was not his daughter, but that she had come into quite a good bit of money, and had done it sudden like. She needed a ’igh, grand outfit, though for the present she would be content with three or four of the dresses most commonly worn by a lydy of stytion. He preferred to nyme no nymes, but he was sure that even Margot would not regret her confidence—and he had the cash, as they saw, in his pocket.
Of this the result was an exchange between the madams of comprehending looks, while, in French, one said to the other that it might be well to consult Madame Simone.
Madame Simone, who bustled in from the back room, was not in black, but in frowzy gray; her coiffure was not à la Marcel, but as Letty described it, “all anyway.” A short, stout, practical Frenchwoman, she had progressed beyond the need to consider looks, and no longer considered them. The two shapely subordinates with whom Steptoe had been negotiating followed her at a distance like attendants.
She disposed of the whole matter quickly, addressing the attendants rather than the postulants for Margot’s favor.
“Mademoiselle she want an outfit—good!—bon! We don’t know her, but what difference does that make to me?—qu’est ce que c’est que cela me fait? Money is money, isn’t it?—de l’argent c’est de l’argent, n’est-ce pas?—at this time of year especially—à cette saison de l’année surtout.”
To Steptoe and Letty she said: “’Ave the goodness to sit yourselves ’ere. Me, I will show you what we ’ave. A street costume first for mademoiselle. If mademoiselle will allow me to look at her—Ah, oui! Ze taille—what you call in Eenglish the figure—is excellent. Très chic. With ze proper closes mademoiselle would have style—de l’élégance naturelle—that sees itself—cela se voit—oui—oui––”
Meditating to herself she studied Letty, indifferent apparently to the actual costume and atrocious hat, like a seeress not viewing what is at her feet but events of far away.
With a sudden start she sprang to her convictions. “I ’ave it. J’y suis.” A shrill piercing cry like that of a wounded cockatoo went down the long room. “Alphonsine! Alphonsine!”