“If I’d only known in the morning,” she gasped, “I’d have put on my fawn coat and skirt. This old thing’s a rag. Does this white fox look dirty, dear?”
“No; you look sweet, dear.”
Followed some frenzied powdering—some dexterous touches with a be-rouged hare’s-foot—the borrowing of a pair of white gloves from one girl, “that lovely parasol” from another, and a hurried departure to meet her fate.
At the door of Mr. Cardomay’s room she halted. It would not do to appear flurried. She must be calm and remember all the wonderful things she had learnt during the last six weeks. She must stand her ground as an artiste, and it was comforting to reflect upon the irreproachable plinth provided by her patent-leather boots, with the uppers that soared upwards to the height of her knee. She knocked, and heard the answering “Come in.”
Mr. Cardomay was engaged in writing in an autograph book as she entered, and he laid it aside and turned his eyes towards her. What he saw seemed to surprise him, for he contracted his brows a little. He had expected to find the same little rosy-cheeked runaway from Bognor, but, instead, here was a young lady all over white fur, white boots, white powder, long gloves and short skirts.
“There’s some mistake, I think,” he said. “I asked for Miss Terry.”
“I’m Eunice Terry.”
“Tch-tch! dear me, you will think it very strange that I hardly know the young ladies in my own company.”
“Oh, not at all,” she replied. “One knocks up against so many people on the road, doesn’t one?”
He nodded gravely. Evidently the young lady was no use for the part, but, being kind-hearted, he hardly knew how to get rid of her.