The seamstress did as she was bid, and, placing the decanter and glasses respectfully on the table and in the manner of a skilled practician, she sat herself down in the same deferential attitude near her employer.
Lady Coxe took a bumper; then she took another, and declared herself better.
Madame Mélanie’s first glass was not half emptied.
“Well, Mélanie, what would you advise about my dress for this party? You know it is to be very shwosi.”
“Miladi shall be the best dressed and the youngest-looking miladi in the house.”
“Git along, Mélanie,” retorted miladi, stealthily filling herself another bumper.
A flush pervaded the cheek of the matron. Perhaps it was of pride.
“Miladi, I recommend moire antique—magenta, with quilled ribbons—chapeau of blonde with magenta trimmings—parasol to match.”
“Your taste is so good, Mélanie.”
“Magenta so well become miladi. Bootiful complexion—she young as Miss Constance.”