She left her with Janet while she ran for the dry clothes. She left her on Janet's immaculate bed in Janet's atrocious dressing gown. Her clothes she unceremoniously turned over to Janet to dry, leaving that practical soul verbose with disgust.
Felicia herself was drenched and she loved it. She was loth to strip the damp clothes off; she felt like running miles and miles in the rain. She was dreamily happy, dreamily miserable; she felt like the day—all tears and smiles both. She dropped the outer garments to floor and pulled her shoes and stockings off. Babiche sat up and begged for a cracker. Felicia stooped, her damp hair clinging to her beautiful forehead, the long scant chemise that had been Octavia's falling loosely from her smooth shoulders.
"Poor Babiche," she crooned, "When your mistress does come in—" So intent was she on reaching for the cracker box that she lifted her voice a bit. Dulcie, outside the door ready to tap on it, swung it open just in time to glimpse the charming posture.
Felicia blushed like a sixteen year old. She reached for her dressing gown and pulled it toward her.
But Dulcie Dierckx, slamming the door behind her, leaned against the panels fairly devouring Felicia with her eyes.
"Oh! Oh!" she cried in absolute ecstacy; "Oh, Pandora! Pandora! don't move! How could I have been so stupid not to have seen you before! Oh, please drop the coat! Oh! Oh! you adorable—you beautiful person—you little old peach!"
Felicia laughed. Laughed her soft, breathless laugh and drew the gown closer.
"You—you're rather embarrassing—" she sighed, "Though of course," her eyes danced mischievously, "my knees and my ankles and my insteps are vairee nice indeed—I got them all from Louisa, Margot says—and my hands—" she stretched one out—"They're Grandmother Trenton's—and I think I have nice ears—but the rest of me—" she shrugged, "The rest of me won't do at all—my mouth is too big and—no, I wouldn't be at all your Pandora—it's dark here—that's why you thought you saw her—"
"I saw her," insisted the Sculptor Girl stubbornly. "And you'd be a brute not to help me—I—look here," she lied casually, "I didn't tell you but I've managed a bit of money—I'm not asking you to pose for nothing—I can pay you more than you earn at your sewing—"
"Oh, money," she stammered. "I didn't think about money—Sculptor
Girl—how could you—"