I
There was one particular day—a sort of seventh wave in her steady tide of success—that Angelica always remembered. To begin with, when she reached Fine Feathers, there was what Miss Devery had promised her should be there—‘ANGÉLIQUE,’ in purple letters across the two front windows. She stopped in the street to admire it, in delight, almost in awe. So far had she come, with such celerity—she, the one-time factory worker! It hardly seemed possible!
She lingered to think of her present magic life, so full of delights and satisfactions; her days filled with this work that she loved, handling the silks, the satins, the velvets, the plumes, the rhinestones, all the rich and vivid things she so adored; the chatter of Devery and Sillon, which never failed to entertain her; the very feeling of being an independent and promising young business woman, with an account well started in a savings-bank. She thought of the charmed evenings she sometimes spent with her partners—dinner at a near-by table d’hôte, and then a seat in the second balcony, to see some play which they had selected. She thought of those long, quiet evenings of study at home, in the tidy kitchen, with the clock that ticked so loudly on the tin tubs.
She was able now to give her mother a respectable sum every week. She was, in fact, rapidly becoming the most important member of the ‘Fine Feathers’ establishment, and she had some time ago entered into a new and far more advantageous arrangement with Miss Sillon. Devery and Sillon were clever and good workwomen, and they had built up a nice little business for themselves; but Angelica was something beyond that—she was the one person especially adapted at that instant of time to design hats which would superlatively please the women of that particular city.
She catered to women with money, of course. She raised her prices fantastically; and when women came in, shamefaced and apologetic because of the fierce denunciations of the war posters they saw outside, she knew just what to say.
"Yes, madam," she agreed. "A hundred and fifty dollars is a large price for a simple little hat. Of course you can get some sort of thing for ten." She who not so long ago had been used to buy one for a dollar and trim it with all sorts of little scraps! "But it’s much more economical to get one really good one, that will keep its style until it’s worn out, than half a dozen cheaper ones."
None of her customers had yet pointed out that one could buy fifteen cheaper hats for this price, which, allowing three months for the season, would require of each hat less than a week’s endurance. Every one who came to her really wished to pay too much for a hat. They all knew, of course, that the bit of fur and lace and satin she gave them didn’t cost one-fifth of the price, but they paid the surplus for the style—that Angélique style.
She went into the back parlour, where Sillon and Devery were draping a collapsible form in a green tulle.
"Hello!" they both said, cheerfully.
"Wouldn’t you know this dress was for a fat woman—or should I say, a well-rounded figure?" said Devery. "They’re all wild about green, the big ones. I wonder why?"