Grizel took the work presented to her,—a full-sized garment of mysterious intent,—and glanced in questioning fashion round the room. The tradesmen’s wives who had been eagerly drinking in the details of her costume, immediately lowered their eyes to their seams, but from every other face beamed a message of invitation. Grizel beamed back, but continued her scrutiny, till finally in the furthermost corner she discovered the figure of that lonely parishioner who was neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring,—Miss Bruce, the retired plumber’s daughter, to whom she had introduced herself at the church decorations. She waved her bag with a smile of recognition, and carried a chair to the corner.
It was not the first time that Chumley had noticed the extraordinary intimacy between Mrs Martin Beverley and “poor Miss Bruce.” They had been seen driving together in the country; Grizel’s car—a wedding present from one of the relatives who had benefited by her marriage—had been observed more than once waiting outside the cottage with the green porch, and the little maid had divulged consequentially that the lady “dropped in now and then, to play cribbage with the missis.” The Chumley matrons were not in the least inclined to follow the lead, and call upon the plumber’s daughter, neither, to tell the truth, did Miss Bruce desire their attentions. She now looked down upon the town, and cherished sneaking ambitions after the county. She gave herself airs, and bought an aigrette for her Sunday bonnet. It is doubtful whether her character was improved by being singled out for such special attention, but at least she was happy, and happiness had been a chary visitor in her life.
“This is the first, the very first Dorcas meeting I have ever been to in all my life,” announced Grizel, smiling. “And d’you know I believe it’s my first introduction to calico. This is calico, isn’t it? Funny smell! I rather like the smell. Do people really use it for undies? Rather,—just a little—gritty,—don’t you think?”
“Personally,” Miss Bruce said primly, “I do not use calico. Not that thread, Mrs Beverley! It’s too fine. Let me give you a length... What has Mrs Thompson given you to make?”
Grizel made a feint of unrolling the calico under cover of an upraised arm.
“I shouldn’t wish it mentioned in society,—but it’s a comby! A comby for a giant, or for a fat woman at a show. Look at the waist width! and I don’t believe she’ll ever be so long from the waist to the shoulder. It will bag over her corsets, and make her back round. Couldn’t I take out a reef in the waist, and join it again with a bit of embroidery?”
“We don’t put embroidery on Dorcas garments.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Not the teeniest bit? Even at the top?”