"A silk; for the street, I suppose? Basque, of course. We only make bodices in full dress. Open body?" And Miss Stringer's rapid fingers measured the shoulders, the waist, the arms, presented to her, mechanically. Customers were but lay figures to the fashionable modiste, to be made up at pleasure. "Miss Elbert, Mrs. Murden's silk."
But Miss Elbert feigned entire ignorance of its reception. "Mrs. Murden—she could not remember the name." And a bustle of search ensued, while the forewoman from the work-room made her appearance for orders, bringing skirts and waists of such rich and dazzling materials as Mrs. Murden had never dreamed of, while she trembled for the fate of her own precious purple. Two errand girls, charity children they looked like, with their little sharp, thin faces and faded shawls, were dispatched to match buttons, and gimps, and galloons, with handsful of patterns, and heads full of instructions, which last did not stay where they were put, which accounted for Miss Lawrence appearing at the Thursday ball with yellow fringe on a lemon-colored dress, and Mrs. Johnson Rogers finding her gray silk—she was in half mourning for the late lamented Mr. Johnson Rogers—decorated by brown velvet acorn buttons. However, both passed for Parisian novelties, and were greatly admired; so Miss Stringer, and not the stupid errand girls, who came back too late to admit of a change, received the credit of these novel decorations.
Much to Mrs. Murden's relief, the silk was at last forthcoming, from an out-of-the-way drawer, and she awaited with inward satisfaction Miss Stringer's inspection. But two-dollar silks were everyday bread and butter to that lady, who merely glanced at it, and tossed the package upon a neighboring sofa, as if it had been so many yards of crash towelling.
"Very good quality," she remarked. "You got it at Evans & Gilman's. Trying to most complexions. What now, Miss Elbert? No, I shall not touch Mrs. Cadwalader's dress before Monday. Tell her she can wear her white moire d'antique; she's only worn it twice this season to my knowledge. Tell her to wear her Honiton scarf, and no one will know what kind of a dress she has on. That will do, Mrs.—I beg your pardon—Mudon. You can come again on Thursday week. How will you have it trimmed?"
Mrs. Murder did not venture to suggest a trimming, and prudently left the whole matter to Miss Stringer's abler hands. Prudently, in one sense; she had never seen a bill from a fashionable shop, recollect. She had been just about to inquire what Miss Stringer would charge. Fortunate escape! The question would have been met with paralyzing coldness. It is a risk to procure your own trimming; but to seek to place a limit as to ultimate expense—unpardonable in the eyes of an autocrat of fashion.
So Mrs. Murden departed very much cast down, and very insignificant in her cashmere dress and the fur she had thought so handsome—so it was in her own set; but her eyes had been dwelling upon velvet cloaks and sable victorines the past two hours. Alas! for her last year's mantle, pretty as it had been; embroidered merinos looked so common—fatal word.
Miss Stringer had entirely forgotten the appointment when she presented herself again on Thursday week. Meantime, it had been very difficult to parry the inquiries of her trio of intimates as to when and how the dress was to be made, without betraying her all-important secret. But she succeeded to admiration. It was in vain for Mrs. Hopkins to remark that Miss Johns was engaged for nearly all the week, to her certain knowledge, or for Mrs. Keyser to allude to Emma Louisa's green poplin, the "sweetest" thing she had ever seen; Mrs. Murden did not give out a clue. She saw the identical green poplin at Miss Stringer's, on her second audience, and heard Miss Elbert remark, with her accustomed freedom, upon its possessor, who was set down by Miss Stringer's young woman as decidedly vulgar and over-dressed. Mrs. Keyser never would have survived overhearing this assault upon her kinswoman. Mrs. Murden treasured it up for future remembrance.
"It does make me sick," remarked Miss Elbert, "to see people load on such things. Thank my stars, I'm not a rich woman! Poor things, I pity them! in a fever from morning till night about a dress or a cloak. Half of them murder the king's English. Don't you say so, Miss Replier?"
Miss Replier, who still fitted "dummy" to one unending round of caps, assented with a nod.
"Then they're so afraid some one else will have something," continued this free-spoken, candid young person. "Did you see Mrs. James Thomas, the day of our opening, take up that garnet hat Miss Stringer had ordered out for Mrs. McCord? Mrs. McCord wouldn't have it, after all, when she heard there was one made from it. And there's Miss Thornton thinks she's got the only Eugenie robe in the country. Levy imported three to my certain knowledge. For my part, it makes me sick as the head boy at a confectioner's. If I was as rich as Mrs. Rush, I wouldn't have a thing better than I have now." And here she condescended to see if Miss Stringer was disengaged, and ushered the possessor of the purple silk into the fitting-room.