"Yes, Rita, positively corpulent. It's a pity. You really had a good figure once."
"The worst of it is that I don't seem to care," she went on, oblivious. "I used to love to dress for moods—for my moods and for other people's. I thought that Art could solve every problem that came to me. Art!" she sniffed contemptuously. "Art in a woman is merely a confession of inefficiency. I used to think that Art was immortal. Now I find that only Nature is."
Camilla lifted the tiny sacque with its absurd blue silk cuffs and examined it with a satisfied air. When she had finished she leaned over to Rita and whispered with the air of an oracle:
"Nature is—immortal."
"It is. You're right," she sighed. "But it's my nature to be merely mortal—and I'm going to die very hard. I must continue to hide my inefficiencies—by Art."
"You're not inefficient," Camilla corrected. "You're merely feminine—extravagantly feminine——"
"Yes, feminine—but not womanly. Oh, I know what I am!" she concluded fiercely.
"You're a darling!" said Camilla softly. "You're very much more womanly than you want people to think you are. Why should you take such a delight in these?" Camilla laid a hand on the wicker basket beside her.
Rita took up one of the tiny garments and examined it with minute interest.
"It's very pretty, isn't it? But quite silly. Imagine anything so tiny! What a lot of trouble you take. And you've made them all yourself. They're really exquisite."