"But only these! I must have frock-coats, lavender pants—trousers, I mean—silk hats, clawhammers, and—and—well, you know, Daisy—other things. I can't have a man to measure me; at least, can I?"
Mrs. Verulam thought silently for a moment. Then she said: "You must be ill."
"Why?"
"For a day or two. Your tweed shall go to a first-rate tailor. Francis—Francis has been valet to the Marquis of Greenbank. He'll know all about that. We'll measure your head in bed, and get the hats. Yes, yes, we'll manage it all. Poor Mr. Rodney!"
A mischievous smile, the true little grin of the coquette, curled her sweet lips.
"They were his roses I put into your room, Chloe," she said.
And Chloe laughed and echoed, "Poor Mr. Rodney!" Then she added, "And James Bush, dear?"
Mrs. Verulam blushed.
"Come, dear, it is time for you to be ill," she said hastily. And she took the tweed suit affectionately by the waist and led it from the room.