Phillis felt quite brave after this, and walked into the Library as though the place belonged to her. When it came to details, Miss Milner was far more nervous than she.
She would keep apologizing to Phillis for making her stand so long, and she wanted to hold the pins and to pick up the scissors that Phillis had dropped; and when the young dressmaker consulted her about the trimmings, she was far too humble to intrude her opinions.
“Anything you think best, Miss Challoner, for you have such beautiful taste as never was seen; and I am sure the way you have fitted that body-lining is just wonderful, and would be a lesson to Miss Slasher for life. No, don’t put the pins in your mouth, there’s a dear.”
For, in her intense zeal, Phillis had thought herself bound to follow the manner of Mrs. Sloper, the village factotum, and she always did so, though Nan afterwards assured her that it was not necessary, and that in this particular they might be allowed to deviate from example.
But she was quite proud of herself when she had finished, for the material seemed to mould under her fingers in the most marvellous way, and she knew the fit would be perfect. She wanted to rush off at once and set to work with Nan; but Miss Milner would not let her off so easily. There was orange wine and seed-cake of her own making in the back parlor, and she had just one question—a very little question—to ask. And here Miss Milner coughed a little behind her hand to gain time and recover her courage.
“The little papers were about the shop, and Mrs. Trimmings saw one, and—and––” Here Phillis came promptly to her relief.
“And Mrs. Trimmings wants to order a dress, does she?” And Phillis bravely kept down the sudden sinking of heart at the news.
Mrs. Trimmings was the butcher’s wife,—the sister of that very Mrs. Squails of whom Dulce once made mention,—well known to be the dressiest woman in Hadleigh, who was much given to imitate her betters. The newest fashions, the best materials, were always to be found on Mrs. Trimmings’s portly figure.
“What could I do?” observed Miss Milner, apologetically: “the papers were about the shop, and what does the woman do but take one up? ‘I wonder what sort of dressmakers these are?’ she said, careless-like; ‘there is my new blue silk that 164 Andrew brought himself from London and paid five-and-sixpence a yard for in St. Paul’s Churchyard; and I daren’t let Miss Slasher have it, for she made such a mess of that French merino. She had to let it out at every seam before I could get into it, and it is so tight for me now that I shall be obliged to cut it up for Mary Anne. I wonder if I dare try these new people?”
“And what did you say, Miss Milner?”