“I wish I could sew better,” exclaimed Elizabeth Wright. “I am going to have to pick out this foolish little flower that I have been trying so hard to make look as though it were growing on Mary Louise’s camisole. There now! I’ve cut a hole in it! Oh, what a stupid I am! Right in the middle of the garment and this crepe de chine costs ’steen dollars a yard! Oh me, oh my! I told you girls I ought to go into business and not try to be so girlie.”
“Let me see if I can’t set you right,” said Mrs. Markle. “I am past mistress at patching.” She took the garment from the unresisting hands of Elizabeth, quickly ripped out the crooked flower that poor Elizabeth had been vainly endeavoring to embroider on it and then, with deft sure fingers and a needle so fine one could hardly see it, she inserted an invisible patch where the cruel scissors had slipped. This needle she took from the lining of her velvet hand bag. It was much smaller than any found in the work boxes of the girls. Irene remarked on it.
“I never can get such tiny needles as that,” she said. “Perhaps if I could manage to shop for myself I might find one.”
“Oh, I’ll be delighted to give you some!” cried the older woman. “I am like you: I simply cannot sew with a spike.”
“That will be very kind of you,” said Irene, wishing she could be as pleasant to Mrs. Markle as Mrs. Markle was to her and hoping that her sentiments were not voiced in her words. She was trying hard to get over her feeling of dislike and distrust for the beautiful little lady but, even though she should give her a thousand fairy needles, she knew that she could not like her. She watched the process of putting in the invisible patch. It was the most perfect piece of needlework she had ever seen and Irene herself did all but perfect work.
“How on earth do you do it?” she exclaimed. “Why, one cannot tell where the patch is!”
The girls crowded around to see the little patch. If Irene did not know how to do it it must be wonderful indeed.
“It is quite easy when once you learn,” laughed Mrs. Markle. “I learned at the convent in Paris. First be sure and match the warp and woof of your material. It takes sharp eyes, but one thread out of place is fatal. Then use a bit of raveled crepe de chine for your thread and the rest is all plain sailing. Practice makes perfect. Now shall I embroider a rose over the place?”
“Oh, do!” cried Elizabeth, “and please somebody give me some plain basting to do on gingham aprons if the bride is to have such things.”
“Don’t you have to have a pattern for your rose?” asked Irene, reaching for her workbag. “I have some patterns here, very pretty ones, and some tracing paper.”