"The awfully chic, exclusive thing has really been overdone," Miss Sillon told Angelica. "All the people with money are crazy now for anything they imagine is artistic and quaint. They think it shows that they’re artistic to like such things; and just now, of course, it’s the thing to be artistic."
She was a complete contrast to the dimpled, red-haired Miss Devery, with her air of polite amusement. She was a short, energetic, very dark little body, lively, talkative, and witty.
"I’m a perfect dressmaker," she told Angelica. "God made me so. Just to look at me makes people turn red with shame and make up their minds on the spot to have something nice and new and trim."
Angelica acknowledged that never had she seen a better-dressed woman, or a neater one.
"I dye my hair and lace as tight as I dare," Miss Sillon continued, "but I do it with pride and vainglory. I boldly call it a duty. I tell these silly women it’s the most important thing in life to keep oneself looking one’s best, and they always agree. Not one of them ever had the sense to inquire what it’s done for me. Here I’ve been looking my best for forty years, and look at me, still digging away for a living, while these wretched, slovenly little chits with holes in their stockings and all their buttons off are settled down with fine husbands and babies and everything else they want! Look at Devery—sloppy kid! She’s never without a man hanging about after her."
Devery smiled.
"They’re mostly bad ones," she said. "Dishonourable intentions, sometimes, but generally no intentions at all. I don’t get no ‘forrader,’ Sillon. But this Angélique—she’s the one! She’s just made for a millionaire’s bride."
Miss Sillon turned to stare at her.
"Devery," she said suddenly, "she’s not quaint enough. Get to work and make her quaint!"
"That I can’t do. She’s not built along quaint lines; but I’ll make her bizarre."