Madame Rosine gesticulated with her hands and smiled.
"Miladi, there is no more!" she declared. "Miladi will perceive it is for the evening wear—it is décolletée—it is to show to everybody Miladi's most beautiful white neck and arms. The effect will be ravishing!"
Thelma's face grew suddenly grave—almost stern.
"You must be very wicked!" she said severely, to the infinite amazement of the vivacious Rosine. "You think I would show myself to people half clothed? How is it possible! I would not so disgrace myself! It would bring shame to my husband!"
Madame was almost speechless with surprise. What strange lady was this who was so dazzlingly beautiful and graceful, and yet so ignorant of the world's ways? She stared,—but was soon on the defensive.
"Miladi is in a little error!" she said rapidly and with soft persuasiveness. "It is la mode. Miladi has perhaps lived in a country where the fashions are different. But if she will ask the most amiable Sieur Bruce-Errington, she will find that her dress is quite in keeping with les convenances."
A pained blush crimsoned Thelma's fair cheek. "I do not like to ask my husband such a thing," she said slowly, "but I must. For I could not wear this dress without shame. I cannot think he would wish me to appear in it as you have made it—but—" She paused, and taking up the objectionable bodice, she added gently—"You will kindly wait here, madame, and I will see what Sir Philip says."
And she retired, leaving the modiste in a state of much astonishment, approaching resentment. The idea was outrageous,—a woman with such divinely fair skin,—a woman with the bosom of a Venus, and arms of a shape to make sculptors rave,—and yet she actually wished to hide these beauties from the public gaze! It was ridiculous—utterly ridiculous,—and Madame sat fuming impatiently, and sniffing the air in wonder and scorn. Meanwhile Thelma, with flushing cheeks and lowered eyes, confided her difficulty to Philip, who surveyed the shocking little bodice she brought for his inspection with a gravely amused, but very tender smile.
"There certainly doesn't seem much of it, does there, darling?" he said. "And so you don't like it?"
"No," she confessed frankly—"I think I should feel quite undressed in it. I often wear just a little opening at the throat—but this—! Still, Philip, I must not displease you—and I will always wear what you wish, even if it is uncomfortable to myself."