Madame Cerise entered. It is scarcely necessary to say that she was an English woman—or, rather, an Irish woman. She was short and fat, with a round, good-natured face, and she and Lady Wyndover greeted each other almost as if they were friends.
She looked at Esmeralda with intent interest and admiration, and when Lady Wyndover mentioned Esmeralda’s name, Madame Cerise’s interest grew quite vivid, for the story of Esmeralda’s fortune had already got into the society papers.
Lady Wyndover conferred with Madame Cerise for some time, in whispers, during which madame glanced at Esmeralda, and nodded intelligently.
“She is superb! She is magnificent!” she exclaimed in hushed staccato. “She will do your ladyship credit. Ah! what a sensation she will create! You leave it to me!”
She called an assistant, and they measured Esmeralda, and produced a variety of materials, the richness of which filled Esmeralda with amazement.
“I shall never wear all these dresses,” she said.
Lady Wyndover and Madame Cerise smiled indulgently.
“Madame Cerise knows,” said Lady Wyndover. “We can trust ourselves to her.”
“You can trust yourself to me,” said Madame Cerise, with a mixture of French accent and Irish brogue. “I will see that Miss Chetwynde is properly dressed. She is magnificent, superb!” she again whispered to Lady Wyndover, as the two ladies took their departure.
“There is time for a turn in the park,” said Lady Wyndover; “that is, dear, if you are sure you’re not tired.”