"Don't stop to talk, Suzanne," I grumbled. "This is indecent exposure of mistaken identity, and I can't stand much of it; so keep moving, will you?"
"The corsage is a marvel, madame!" exclaimed Suzanne, ecstatically.
"It is, girl," I muttered, glancing at myself in a mirror. "It feels like a cross between a modern life-preserver and a mediæval breast-plate. Don't lace the thing so tight, Suzanne. I've got to talk now and then!"
Suzanne was too busy to listen to my somewhat delirious comments.
"It is a miracle!" she cried in French. "Madame is a purple dream, is she not?"
"Madame will be a black-and-blue what-is-it before you know it," I moaned. "Does that girl outside there expect to have a look at--ah--this ridiculous costume?" I asked, testily.
"Madame is so strange to-day," murmured Suzanne, wearily. "You are free to go now, madame."
"I clutched at the train that anchored me to my place of torture, and moved clumsily toward the room in which the young dressmaker awaited me.
"Ah!" cried the girl, as I broke upon her vision, a creature of beauty, but very far from graceful. "Madame Bonari will be overjoyed. The dress is perfection, is it not, Mrs. Stevens? I've never seen such a fit."
"It feels like a fit," I remarked, pantingly. "Suzanne," I called out, desperately, "slip a few cogs in front here, will you? This is only a rehearsal, you know. If I must suffocate at the ball I'll school myself for the occasion. But I refuse to be a pressed flower this morning. Thanks, that's better. It's like a quick recovery from pneumonia. You may go, girl. Give my compliments to Madame--ah--Bonari, and tell her I'm on the road to recovery. Good morning!"