“I think not quite. Shall Miss Kemper look at it?”
Madame assented, and Floy’s nimble fingers were presently busied about her, she meanwhile earnestly regarding the reflection of the young face in the glass.
It seemed to have far more interest for her than the fit of the new gown, though ordinarily she was eager as a child in regard to any new article of dress.
“Does it satisfy you now, Madame?” asked Floy at length.
The Madame started as if waking from a dream, glanced at the image of her own portly figure, and responded with a hasty “Yes, yes, it is all right! Child, you look tired, wretchedly tired—almost ill. You must rest. Sit down in that chair, and Mary shall bring you some refreshments.”
“Many thanks, but I have no time for rest; these are busy days for dressmakers,” Floy answered, with a sad smile, thinking of the piles of dress patterns still untouched, and garments in various stages of completion, in Mrs. Sharp’s work-room.
“Sit down!” repeated the Madame, with an imperious gesture; “I am used to obedience from all in this house. Just slip my wrapper on again, Mary, and then go to my closet and bring out all the good things you can find.”
Mary obeyed, nothing loath, for she too felt drawn to the young stranger, and Floy presently had spread before her a tempting variety of cakes, confectionery, and tropical fruits.
In vain she protested that she was not hungry; Madame would not be content till she had seen her eat an orange and a bunch of grapes, and put a paper of candies into her pocket.
For the rest of the day the Madame insisted upon occupying an easy chair in the sewing-room, where, with Frisky curled up in her lap and the latest novel in her hand, she furtively watched Floy’s movements, and when she spoke, listened with ill-concealed eagerness to every tone of her voice.