"What did he do?" she asked, anxious for information.
"He—it isn't 'did,' it is 'does.' He—makes dresses."
"Dresses!"
This single word, but no exclamation point could express its tone of wild amazement.
"Yes."
"A man!"
"Yes."
There was a dead silence. It was embarrassing at first. Then the amazement of the unsophisticated one began to calm itself; it gradually died down, and became another emotion, merging itself into interest.
"Does"—guilelessly she inquired—"he make nice ones?"
"Nice!" echoed Miss Ferrol. "They are works of art! I have got three in my trunk."