But Denise's order was lavish; it meant petticoats, wraps to match; it meant items of real lace. How then to spare sorrow because one golden yellow evening gown ordered by a Mrs Carteret had been too hurriedly finished.
"Tell Madame that I am really pressed for time. Can she not spare me five minutes?"
Madame was with Lady Blakeney, very busy with an order, the forewoman was also engaged. A slender young woman in black satin glided back with the message. Would Madame call again later, make an appointment? Had Madame seen one of the latest scarves? Quite charming, only five guineas. Black satin dexterously whisked out a wisp of chiffon. "No! Madame did not want a scarf."
Denise was behind the strawberry silk curtains hiding in Madame's sanctum. Esmé felt hurt, sore. It was always Denise—always Denise. She, Esmé, was no one.
She got up, looking at her tall, slight figure in one of the long glasses; she grew flushed, angry.
"I have not time to call again. Please tell Madame that the evening gown is impossible, a strait-waistcoat. I was to have worn it to-night at a dance. Now I must wear an old gown of Lucille's—which at least fits." Esmé flounced out, wiping the dust of the strawberry-hued salon from her tightly-shod feet.
Half an hour later Madame Claire heard the message.
"Alter it," she said carelessly. "Let it out. I expect she'll give me up now. Send her her bill at once."
The heat beat down in quivering waves. All London shopped, buying, buying, since freshness lasted but for a few days, and one must not be seen in a gown more than three or four times.
Tinsels and chiffons and laces; feather ruffles; silks and crepes and muslins; gloves and silken stockings piled up on the mahogany counters for Society to buy. Subtle-tongued assistants lauded their wares; there was always something which Madame had not dreamt of buying, but which she suddenly discovered to be an absolute necessity.