"Young Rushton," returned the street surveyor, turning dummy's blank face for another fold of lace. "He's devoted, they say."
"I beg your pardon, madam." It was not a pardon asked for inattention, but a suggestion to Mrs. Murden to finish her business.
"A dress," continued Mrs. Murden, falteringly. "When could you make it?"
"Next week, or week after, perhaps, or early next month. You can call on Wednesday, and Miss Stringer will make an appointment to fit you," vouchsafed the attendant with the Jenny Lind silk apron. "You can send round the material in the mean time. Street or evening-dress?"
Strictly speaking, Mrs. Murden never had had an evening-dress; her silks were worn to the parties she usually attended. She had the precious purchase with her, and she considered it quite handsome enough for any ball that ever was given; but she would not have offered it to the young woman then on any consideration. She felt convicted of carrying her own bundles, and consequently carried this one home again, to be left next day by Mr. Murden on his way to the store.
Wednesday, and Mrs. Murden, dressed in her best, waited again upon Miss Stringer. This time, the lady herself appeared, and proved not to be quite so withering as her assistant—principals seldom are. There were several fashionable ladies in waiting, all on the most gossipping and familiar terms with Miss Stringer, who was besieged with petitions for impossible work to be done in incredible haste, enforced by "You kind, good creature," and other terms of endearment written in the wheedling vocabulary. According to their piteous statements, not one of these splendidly attired women had a dress to cover them, or a cloak to shield them from the cold. Mrs. Murden had a fine opportunity of seeing and hearing while she waited exactly one hour for Miss Stringer. She had never been in such close contact with fashionable women before. Like many others of her own position in life, they had always been her envy and her admiration from a distance, as they swept across the pavement from their carriages, or brushed past her at the entrance of Bailey's or Levy's, at whose fascinating windows she was spell-bound. They could not have a wish ungratified, she was sure; their lives must pass like a fairy tale, all flowers and music. But, now that she saw them nearer, the wan and restless eyes, the half hidden wrinkles painfully distended in the glare of a bright winter's morning, and the querulous, fretful tones, told another story.
"They were tired to death"—they whose feet scarcely touched the pavement, and who had servants at every call. "The party of last night was so stupid!" "The ball of Thursday wouldn't be worth the trouble of dressing for." "What should they wear? Miss Stringer must tell them." "Did she know Rushton's engagement was broken with Bell Hamilton? Her ill health, it was said; but every one knew, because he had been flirting so all winter with Mrs. McCord. But then she had such a brute of a husband, Coleman McCord, who could blame her? He was devoted to the southern beauty, Miss Legree." "Was lemon color quite out of date? and should they get crimson fuchsias with gold tips for the wreath?"
Mrs. Murden was so deep in moral reflections suggested by this style of conversation, that she did not perceive Miss Stringer was ready for her at first. She was almost sorry when the moment arrived, for she dreaded an interview with this maker of fine ladies, who dictated to them so coolly, and was so besieged, and coaxed, and petted by them. The lady's distant, preoccupied manner added to her embarrassment, when, finding she had an unoccupied half hour, she proposed to fit her forthwith, and asked Mrs. Murden into the inner apartment, with its curtains and lounges, its cheval glass reflecting the little woman's figure from head to foot, and reminding her that the dress she wore was at least two inches shorter than the flowing robes of the birds of paradise who had just taken their departure. Silly little body, she felt so awkward and old-fashioned, and wished in her heart she was in her own back parlor, with Miss Johns and her heart-shaped pin-cushion. She was quite a mirror of fashion to Miss Johns, who was indebted to Mrs. Murden for half her new sleeves and trimmings, caught by those observing black eyes, and shaped out at home with the aid of old newspapers. But here it was the mantuamaker's place to dictate.
"A basque, of course, or is it an evening-dress? What name?"
"Murden—Mrs. Murden." And she knew perfectly well it was one entirely foreign to the ears that caught it, low as was her tone. But when Miss Stringer came to see that silk her opinion might change. Mrs. Murden longed to have it brought forth and note the effect.