"Maybe he never looked to see, ma'am," she said demurely, "having his eyes busy with prettier things."
Fantine Le Grand laughed easily and her manner changed to more familiarity at once.
"You know which side your bread is buttered, my girl. So much the better. Now I wonder how much use you will be?"
"I was six years at the dressmaking, madam," replied Marrion, "and the forewoman gave me all the touching-up work; she said I had a good hand for folds."
Fantine gave a relieved sigh.
"Then you're not quite a bumpkin, but I suppose you can't do hair?"
"I can, a little," said Marrion; "I learnt just a wee while in Perragier's shop in Edinburgh. The foreman wanted me to stop, but I don't care for the business."
All of which was absolutely true; for the hairdresser who had offered her gold for her russet hair had afterwards offered her his heart and hand. What is more he had hardly yet withdrawn his offer, and only that morning the post had brought her a long and friendly letter enclosing a sachet and a most particular account of how he had dressed the hair of all the Edinburgh celebrities in the latest fashion for the last big ball.
"I'm thinking," she went on deftly, "that the new Sevigné style would just suit madam, if she will allow me to try. There will be time to change if it doesn't please."
Five minutes later Fantine Le Grand, in pink wrapper, was watching in the glass Marrion's fingers curling and twisting and combing and puffing. And Marrion was watching the glass also, a half inherited, half acquired perception of what was beautiful and becoming aiding her lack of practice.