Her hands smoothed down the body of a frock I had not seen before—a sooty shower of black chiffon over I know not what intricately-simple and expensive-looking swathing below.
"I believe you're afraid to trust me with his money," she smiled, preening herself.
This conversation, I ought to say, took place in her studio. Suddenly I looked up.
"Julia," I demanded, "where's that tallboy gone?"
"The tallboy? Oh, it's somewhere about the place."
"On your back?"
"Not all of it. Some of it's on my feet. Don't you like them?"
She showed them. I turned away.
"Then," I said, "if he's selling furniture to pay for a holiday, and you're selling it to buy frocks, I certainly shan't trust you with a penny. If he writes to you you'd better wire me."
"Poor Julia!" she laughed. "When she was sensible she could do nothing right, and now that she's quite mad she's as wrong as ever. Well, a short life and a gay one. Good-bye, George, and a happy holiday——"