“I might consult you about my next color scheme—original artists are so rare. I change this room every year.” Her eyelids drooped.
At this point Mary ventured to draw attention to herself.
“Why is it, Miss Berber,” she asked in her clear English voice, “that you have only couches here?”
Felicity's lids trembled; she half looked up. “How seldom one hears a beautiful voice,” she uttered. “Chairs, Mrs. Byrd, destroy women's beauty. Why sit, when one can recline? My clients may not wear corsets; reclining encourages them to feel at ease without.”
Mary found Miss Berber's affectations absurd, but this explanation heightened her respect for her intelligence. “Method in her madness,” she quoted to herself.
“Miss Berber, I want you to create a gown for my wife. I am sure when you look at her you will be interested in the idea.” Stefan expected every one to pay tribute to Mary's beauty.
Again Miss Berber's fingers strayed. The nymph appeared. “How long have I, Chloris? ... Half an hour? Then send me Daphne. You notice the silence, Mr. Byrd? It rests my clients, brings health to their nerves. Without it, I could not do my work.”
Mary smiled as she mentally contrasted these surroundings with Farraday's office, where she had last heard that expression. Was quiet so rare a privilege in America, she wondered?
A moment, and a second damsel emerged, brown-haired, clad in a paler green, and carrying paper and pencil. Not until this ministrant had seated herself at the foot of Miss Berber's couch did that lady refer to Stefan's request. Then, propping herself on her elbow, she at last looked full at Mary. What she saw evidently pleased her, for she allowed herself a slight smile. “Ah,” she breathed, “an evening, or a house gown?”
“Evening,” interposed Stefan. Then to Mary, “You look your best decolletée, you know.”