The general room was crowded with women—women in the fashions of the day preparing for the fashions of the morrow; girls—the pretty, graceful, polite dressmakers’ assistants famed in Parisian song and story—persuading, soothing, cajoling, flattering. There were a few men, all of them fitters except two. The exceptions were Grafton, trying to efface himself, and Paquin, trying to escape. He had come forth at the request of a customer important enough to be worthy of personal attention, but not important enough to be admitted to the honor of his private consultation-room. The women had seized him and, regardless of his bored and absent expression and speech, were swarming about him, impeding his retreat.
Grafton soon forgot himself, so interested was he in his surroundings—the clamor in French, German, English, American, Italian, Spanish; the exhibits of manners grand and manners sordid; the play of feminine emotions—the passion for dress, the thoughtful pauses before plunging into tempting extravagances, the reckless yieldings to temptation, the woe-begone putting aside of temptation; the mingling of women of all degrees, from royalty and American to actress and demi-mondaine. And they so far ignored the male intruder that they were presently tossing aside dresses into his lap or spreading them against his knees for better display. He retreated along the sofa before up-piling silks and satins and laces and linens. At last he had to choose between being submerged and abandoning the sofa. He still lingered, meekly standing, his hat and stick buried. As he was examining an evening dress that pleased him mightily—a new kind of silk in new shades, a cream white over which a haze of the palest blue-green seemed to be drifting—he chanced to glance along the passage-way.
One of the fitting-salons was open, and half in the doorway, half in the hall, stood a young woman. Her waist was off; her handsome shoulders and arms were bare, yet no more than if she had been in evening dress. She had fine brown hair with much red in it. Her features were strong and rather haughty, but delicate and pleasing. Her skin was dead-white, colorless even on her cheeks. She was frowning and biting her lip and tapping her foot on the floor. As he glanced she caught his eye. She beckoned imperiously.
He put down the dress and went slowly towards her.
“Quick,” she said, in French. “My patience is exhausted. I’ve been waiting half an hour and no fitter has come. Are you a fitter?”
“No,” he replied, also in French. “I’m not exactly a fitter; I’m a—an American. But I’ll get you one.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed the young woman, in English, and she darted into her salon and slammed the door.
Two attendants—a man and a woman—came at him from opposite directions. “But, monsieur! But, monsieur! What does monsieur do here? It is forbidden!” Their politeness was thin, indeed, over their alarm and indignation.
“The lady called me,” explained Grafton, calmly. “It was impossible for me to disobey her. She thought I was a fitter.”
As he spoke she opened her door and showed her head. The attendants, with serious faces, began to pour out apologies. “Pardon, Your Serene Highness! We hope that your—”