"See, this one was sold to Milady Blakeney. And this which we wish Madame to have is almost as good. Milady's has remained for slight alteration."
Truly a gorgeous garment this—sables black in their splendour; clasps of jade and silver and paste; lining such as fairy princesses might wear. A ruffle of old Mechlin.
"This is of English money nine hundred pounds. Unique, exquisite. And this other looks as well."
Sudden bitter resentment choked Esmé. Denise could have this coat and go on to other shops to buy jewels, laces, unneeded follies. What was five hundred pounds? Denise might easily have taken her out to-day, bought her furs or given her twice the stipulated money; this time might have been generous.
"Oh! I'll take this one." Esmé touched the sable coat. After all, she had money in the bank; she had lived free for six months. "Yes, I'll pay for it now."
She had to wait while they went to the bank; then she went out in the rich mantle. It was heavy, a little difficult to walk in, but she could see her fair face against the dark furs as she peered into mirrors.
At the dressmaker's she grew irritable again. Why again should all she wanted be so dear? That soft wisp of satin and chiffon and lace, a mere rag in the hand, but on a model cunningly outlining rounded limbs, setting off a soft throat, billowing about one's feet; that tea-gown of opal velvet; that severe coat and skirt of blue, were all beyond her now that the coat was hers. Yet Esmé bought recklessly, a sullen anger driving her. Madame Arielle would copy and create others, these three she must have. And this—and this blouse; another dress and scarf.
Esmé had ordered there before, but never in this style. Madame looked dubious.
"I'll pay you fifty now on account." And so only fifty left of a half-yearly price. "That brown—you'll copy it at once?"
"Ah, yes—shortly." But Madame was pressed. "Milady Blakeney had been in ordering a dozen frocks, but of a beauty," gushed Madame, "one all of real lace and silver crepe. Ah, yes."