“What’s up!” he asked himself. “Whatever it is, I’ll bet Irene for all Time is in the right. She doesn’t like the pretty lady and I wonder why.” But he said nothing to let Irene know he had fathomed her feelings in the matter.
“Excuse me,” said Billy McGraw, whose eyes showed plainly the admiration he felt for Mrs. Markle, “but do you know I think that’s the most beautiful breast-pin I ever saw except one I saw like it once.”
“Oh, I didn’t know there was one like it in the world,” said Mrs. Markle. “I declare these artists are an unreliable lot. My husband had this made for me by an old goldsmith in Munich. It was after his own design. Poor Mr. Markle worked on it for days and days and took such delight in the fact that it was to be the only thing of its kind in the whole world. Now that wretched old goldsmith has no doubt duplicated it.”
“The one I speak of was made at Tiffany’s. Of course, it too was supposed to be unique. Jerald Thomas had it made for his wife. I fancy old Jerry didn’t do the designing, though, for he is more of an adept on Wall Street reading the ticker than he is drawing orchids. I should like to see it closely if you wouldn’t mind,” he pleaded. “I have a perfect passion for finely wrought gold and enamel.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” answered Mrs. Markle, blushing a bit, which made her even lovelier than before, “but this brooch is a kind of keystone to my costume. You girls will understand, I know,” and she looked appealingly at the females. “Of course, mere man doesn’t know how a woman puts on her frock and then pins it at exactly the right place. I know it doesn’t show, all this care we take, but I am sure, if we didn’t take the care and if we put our brooches in the wrong place and at the wrong angle and had our gowns too tightly drawn up in front or too much open, then you would note the difference. I must confess that, when I dress, I go to work with a certain reverence, the kind of reverence a painter feels for his palette and canvas.”
“Well, far be it from me to ruin the picture,” laughed Billy. “And let me do reverence to the artist,” bowing low. “It was stupid of me to look at such perfection and to ‘consider the lilies’ just as though somebody had not been toiling and spinning to bring forth so much beauty.”
“I know you think I am foolish,” said Mrs. Markle, blushing again.
“Indeed we don’t, Hortense, we think you are exactly right not to ruin the effect of your lovely gown,” put in Mary Louise. “I know just exactly how it is. Sometimes I have a horrid time getting myself to look right and nothing would make me undo the work.”
Everybody laughed at this, as it was a well known fact among Mary Louise’s friends that she spent less time in front of the mirror than any pretty girl ever did. Being blessed with wavy hair that arranged itself, she had nothing to do but coil it in a low knot at the nape of her neck. She had many tastefully chosen gowns but they must be easy to get into with no complications of hooks and buttons to madden her. She often changed her dress on the fly trusting to luck that she was all right. And she usually was.
“Heavens above! I didn’t mean to get in bad. Please, Mrs. Markle, forgive me. It has actually taken my appetite away. I believe everybody here is down on me,” moaned Billy.