“Irish, evidently,” the large lady decided shrewdly. “Rather awkward, isn’t it, about pet names, and laundry marks, and so forth? However. ... And so you’ve been paying her a visit, I suppose, and are returning to your home?”
“One of my homes,” corrected Pixie happily. “I have three. Two sisters and one brother. And they all like to have me. My parents are dead.” Her tone showed that the loss referred to was of many years’ standing; nevertheless, the stout lady hurriedly changed the conversation, as though fearful of painful reminiscences.
“I have been having a morning’s shopping. We live quite in the country, and I come to town every time I need a new gown. I have been arranging for one this morning, for a wedding. So difficult, when one has no ideas! I chose purple.”
Pixie cocked her head on one side and thoughtfully pursed her lips.
“Very nice! Yes, purple’s so—portly!” She surprised a puckering of the large lady’s face, and hastened to supplement the description. “Portly, and—er—regal, and duchessy, don’t you think? I met a duchess once—she was rather like you—and she wore purple!”
The large lady expanded in a genial warmth. Her lips opened in a breathless question—
“How was the bodice made?”
Pixie reflected deeply.
“I can’t exactly say! But it was years ago. It would be quite démodé. For a wedding, of course, you must be up to date. Weddings make a fuss for months, and are so soon over—I mean for the guests. They are not much fun.”
“Where did you meet the Duchess?”