“Indeed, yes,” assented Valentine warmly. “You have a style of your own.”
“Yes, I think you and I have got me up rather stunningly these last two years,” said Beatrice.
The dressmaking business was as good as started before they had dinner—at which Miss Richmond had her companion sitting opposite her. Miss Clermont as a companion was a triumph. No one but a Frenchwoman could have glided so easily from menial to equal. “But then, I knew she could,” thought Beatrice, “the instant I looked at her hands, when she came to try for the place. Hands tell more than faces—and hers are the hands of a lady.”
At noon the next day, while Beatrice and Valentine were out walking, Peter telephoned, leaving word that he would call at half past four. At that hour Beatrice received him in the hotel parlor. He eyed her with admiring wonder. He expected to find all sorts of signs of her altered position—would not have been surprised had she already begun to look dowdy and down at the heel. Her radiance of spirit, of body and of toilet struck him as little less than miraculous. “You certainly are a cool one,” said he. “Why, you don’t look a bit upset.”
“Never felt so well in my life,” declared Beatrice. “I feel so—so—free!”
Peter shook his head warningly. “Wait till you have had a full dose. Wait till you really find out what you’re up against.”
“What is it?”
“Oh, you’re out of your world. It’s all very well to jump into the water and swim for a few minutes—just for the fun of the thing. But how about going in for being a fish and living in the water—eh?”
“I’d no idea you could do so well, Peter,” said Beatrice. “That’s both wise and witty. Why didn’t you begin that sort of talk sooner?”
“Oh, I say!” protested the young man. “I’m not such a mutt as you thought me. No one could be.”