Angelica read the letter to her mother, all but the signature, and ate her supper in silence.
"Sit down, mommer," she said. "I’ll wash the dishes. I guess I’ll lay off for a while to-morrow and go and see about this thing."
III
It was Angelica at her newest and best who walked across Fourth Street the next morning. She had for a long time sternly withheld most of her wages from her mother, who needed the money for vital necessities, and had bought herself a decent outfit, to go with her new soul. She was plainly dressed, but no longer with a trace of shabbiness. She wore a neat dark suit, a black sailor hat, good boots and gloves. Her swagger was gone, and so was her provocative and insolent glance; she had a sobriety and decorum quite beyond reproach.
She saw the shop, and entered. It was a small private house, dilapidated and moribund, fitted out with purple and white striped curtains at the windows and a great sign-board over the front gate—a wooden peacock, brilliantly colored, with ‘Fine Feathers’ painted in bold black letters across it. The shop was what had once been a front parlour—a long, narrow room with a marble mantelpiece and an ornate ceiling. It was furnished now, with great audacity, solely by four kitchen chairs painted white, with round purple cushions on them, a table on which were strewn original designs for wraps and dresses done in crayons, and a fine pair of black velvet portières concealing the back room. Four long mirrors were set into the walls.
The owners were both poor and clever. They knew well that this childish brightness would be thought artistic, original, and distinguished by the greatly desirable bourgeoisie, and that the more sophisticated would be amused. As for Angelica, she was impressed.
A tall young girl with fluffy red hair hastened in from the back room.
"Yes?" she asked, with non-committal amiability.
"Mrs. Geraldine sent me," said Angelica, "I’d like to see Miss Sillon, please."