"Ah, but it is ravishing; mademoiselle's figure is magnificent, and the tint suits mademoiselle's complexion and colouring to perfection. Oh, but it is a pity mademoiselle is in London. Only in Paris could such a work of art be appreciated. Ah, mademoiselle has the right idea of dress. It is a pleasure to make for her."
With deft fingers she fluttered round, settling a tuck here, smoothing a fold there. "Let mademoiselle observe for herself," said the woman.
Myra surveyed herself in the full-length mirror. Madame Gabrielle was right. Her skin was dazzlingly fair against the dull rose tint of the fabric. Cleverly, too, had the modiste followed the lines of her customer's figure. Not a single graceful curve had been hidden. Yet Myra felt no sense of nudity. All outlines were softened by careful arrangement of chiffon.
Myra turned to the woman. "You have carried out my idea exactly. I am very pleased," she said.
Madame Gabrielle beamed with gratification. She began again to express her pleasure in gowning such a perfect figure. Myra cut her short. She wanted to be alone. When the woman had departed, she approached the mirror again and looked steadily at the reflection. Taking up a hand glass, she moved backwards and forwards, up and down, posturing in a score of different ways. Then suddenly she flung herself down upon her knees by the side of a chair and threw her arms in the air with a cry of despair. Something gave way in the new frock, but she paid no heed.
"Oh, Guy, Guy!" she wailed. But the cry was hardly uttered before it was checked. She bit her lip, and looked again at the mirror to gather courage.
She blushed. A string had broken, and the bodice had slipped. Suppose that Guy had answered her call. Her heart beat almost as tumultuously as if he had been present. She made a pin do service for the broken string, and, smiling again, went in search of Hora.
She found him in his study with a volume of the "Arabian Nights" open before him, but with his eyes gazing into vacancy. He did not glance at her as she entered. She moved gracefully across the room until she stood before him, then she asked simply:
"Shall I do, Commandatore?"
Her voice was low, alluring, with a spice of mockery in it. Hora looked up impatiently, and he caught his breath. His impatience vanished. A smile passed over his face. Then he looked critically at his vis-à-vis, so critically that Myra flushed rosily and half turned away.