“Take it away, child. I don’t want a Sheik pattern.”
The girl tried next a soft blue wool wrapper with cord and tassels.
“Nor a baby bunting,” snapped Miss Frink. “I tell you he’s a he-man.”
Millicent could feel the tears of amusement pressing to her eyes, but she was quite frightened at the same time. The customer towered so above her and now began pulling over the gowns with her own hands.
“Look here, haven’t you got something handsome?” demanded Miss Frink at last.
“Oh, I’m sure we have what any one has,” stammered Millicent. “I thought if it was for a sick person, something soft—”
“Well, he isn’t going to be sick all his life, I hope.”
Millicent hurried to some drawers at one side, and opening one drew forth a dressing-gown of heavy black satin on which were printed small wine-colored flowers. Each one burst into brightness with one crimson petal, giving an effect of jewels. The rich cord and tassels showed threads of crimson.
Miss Frink’s expression was one she had probably not worn since she was confronted by her first wax doll with real hair. She grimaced her eyeglasses off.
“Well, I think better of Ross Graham,” she said, after an eager pause.