Madame Pelissier disclosed her creations. Hat after hat was fitted to the daffodil-colored mane. Cheriton hovered round and round the young goddess, surveying each separate effect from every point of view. His gravity could not have been excelled by a minister of state.
“They must be enormous,” said he, with ever-mounting enthusiasm. “They must sit at the perfect angle. They must be of the hue of the wing of the raven. Yes, feathers decidedly. And they must flop like the dooce.”
“Cheriton,” said the warning voice, “don’t be a coxcomb.”
“Yes, I like that wicker-work arrangement. The way it flops is capital. It will do for week-days. But there must be one for Sunday mornings in which to go to church.”
Madame Pelissier was inclined to be affronted by Cheriton’s extreme fastidiousness. There was not a single creation in the whole collection which had quite got “that,” he declared, snapping his fingers in the manner of Sir Joshua.
“Madame Pelissier,” said he, solemnly, “it comes to this. You will have to invoke your genius to create a Sunday hat for Juno. You observe what Gainsborough did for her great-grandmamma. Mark well that masterpiece, dear Madame Pelissier, for je prends mon bien où je le trouve.”
“Carte blanche, milor?” said Madame Pelissier, with a little shrug.
“Absolument,” said my lord. “Give a free rein to your genius, ma chère madame. Crown the young goddess with the noblest creation that ever consecrated the drab pavement of Bond Street.”
“I warn you, Cheriton,” said the aunt of the young goddess, “I will not have the creature figged out like a ballet-dancer or a female in a circus.”
“Peace, Caroline. Where is your knitting?” He shook a finger of warning at her. “Really, Caroline, you must refrain from philistine observations in the presence of those who are dedicated to the service of art.”