“Englishwomen always do,” murmured Miss Berber.
“Will you kindly take off your hat and coat, and stand up, Mrs. Byrd?” Mary complied, feeling uncomfortably like a cloak model.
“Classic, pure classic. How seldom one sees it!” Miss Berber's voice became quite audible. “Gold, of course, classic lines, gold sandals. A fillet, but no ornaments. You wish to wear this raiment during the ensuing months, Mrs. Byrd?” Mary nodded. “Then write Demeter type,” the designer interpolated to her satellite, who was taking notes. “Otherwise it would of course be Artemis—or Aphrodite even?” turning for agreement to Stefan. “Would you say Aphrodite?”
“I always do,” beamed he, delighted.
At this point the first nymph, Chloris, again appeared, and at a motion of Miss Berber's hand rapidly and silently measured Mary, the paler hued nymph assisting her as scribe.
“Mr. Byrd,” pronounced the autocrat of the establishment, when at the conclusion of these rites the attendants had faded from the room. “I never design for less than two hundred dollars. Such a garment as I have in mind for your wife, queenly and abundant—” her hands waved in illustration—“would cost three hundred. But—” her look checked Mary in an exclamation of refusal—“we belong to the same world, the world of art, not of finance. Yes?” She smiled. “Your painting, Mr. Byrd, is worth three times what I gave for it, and Mrs. Byrd will wear my raiment as few clients can. It will give me pleasure”—her lids drooped to illustrate finality—“to make this garment for the value of the material, which will be—” her lips smiled amusement at the bagatelle—“between seventy and eighty-five dollars—no more.” She ceased.
Mary felt uncomfortable. Why should she accept such a favor at the hands of this poseuse? Stefan, however, saved her the necessity of decision. He leapt to his feet, all smiles.
“Miss Berber,” he cried, “you honor us, and Mary will glorify your design. It is probable,” he beamed, “that we cannot afford a dress at all, but I disregard that utterly.” He shrugged, and snapped a finger. “You have given me an inspiration. As soon as the dress arrives, I shall paint Mary as Demeter. Mille remerciements!” Bending, he kissed Miss Berber's hand in the continental manner. Mary, watching, felt a tiny prick of jealousy. “He never kissed my hand,” she thought, and instantly scorned herself for the idea.
The designer smiled languidly up at Stefan. “I am happy,” she murmured. “No fittings, Mrs. Byrd. We rarely fit, except the model gowns. You will have the garment in a week. Au revoir.” Her eyes closed. They turned to find a high-busted woman entering the room, accompanied by two young girls. As they departed a breath-like echo floated after them, “Oh, really, Mrs. Van Sittart—still those corsets? I can do nothing for you, you know.” Tones of shrill excuse penetrated to the lift door. At the curb below stood a dyspeptically stuffed limousine, guarded by two men in puce liveries.
The Byrds swung southward in silence, but suddenly Stefan heaved a great breath. “Nom d'un nom d'un nom d'un vieux bonhomme!” he exploded, voicing in that cumulative expletive his extreme satisfaction with the morning.