'When I have got my lines and main ideas in my head,' she said pensively, 'then we will call in the maids. Of course you might have the things made in Rome. But as we have the models—and these two maids have nothing to do—why not give ourselves the pleasure of looking after it?'
Pleasure! Lucy Foster opened her eyes.
Still, here was this absurd, this most extravagant cheque from Uncle Ben, and these peremptory commands to get herself everything—everything—that other girls had. Why, it was demanded of her, had she been economical and scrupulous before starting? Folly and disobedience! He had been told of her silly hesitations, her detestable frugalities—he had ferretted it all out. And now she was at a disadvantage—was she? Let her provide herself at once, or old as he was, he would take train and steamer and come and see to it!
She was not submissive in general—far from it. But the reading of Uncle
Ben's letter had left her very meek in spirit and rather inclined to cry.
Had Uncle Ben really considered whether it was right to spend so much money on oneself, to think so much about it? Their life together had been so simple, the question had hardly emerged. Of course it was right to be neat and fresh, and to please his taste in what she wore. But—
The net result of all this internal debate, however, was to give a peculiar charm, like the charm of rippled and sensitive water, to features that were generally too still and grave. She stood silently before the long glass while Mrs. Burgoyne and the maids talked and pinned. She walked to the end of the room and back, as she was bid; she tried to express a preference, when she was asked for one; and as she was arrayed in one delicious gown after another, she became more and more alive to the beauty of the soft stuffs, the invention and caprice with which they were combined, the daintiness of their pinks and blues, their greys and creams, their lilacs and ivories. At last Mrs. Burgoyne happened upon a dress of white crape, opening upon a vest of pale green, with thin edges of black here and there, disposed with the tact, the feeling of the artist; and when Lucy's tall form had been draped in this garment, her three attendants fell back with one simultaneous cry:
'Oh my dear!' said Mrs. Burgoyne drawing a long breath.—'Now you see, Marie—I told you!—that's the cut. And just look how simple that is, and how it falls! That's the green. Yes, when Mathilde is as good as that she's divine.—Now all you've got to do is just to copy that. And the materials are just nothing—you'll get them in the Corso in half-an-hour.'
'May I take it off?' said Lucy.
'Well yes, you may'—said Mrs. Burgoyne, reluctantly—'but it's a great pity. Well now, for the coat and skirt,'—she checked them off on her slim fingers—'for the afternoon gown, and one evening dress, I think I see my way—'
'Enough for one morning isn't it?' said Lucy half laughing, half imploring.