a breeze, all gave a bizarre sort of "value," as artists say, to my pale yellow hair and dark eyes. I could n't help seeing that the dreadful dress made my skin pearly white; and I was afraid that, when I had altered the thing, instead of looking like a frump, I should only present the appearance of a rather fast little actress. I should be looked at in my scarlet abomination. People would stare, and smile. The Duchesse de Melun would say to the Marquise de Roquemartine: "Who is that young person? She looks exactly like someone I know—that little Lys d'Angely the millionaire-man, Charretier, is so silly about."
"You see, you can alter it very easily," said Lady Turnour.
"Yes, miladi."
"Have you got any dancing slippers?"
"No—that is—I don't know ⸺"
"Don't be stupid. I will give you ten francs to buy yourself a pair of red stockings and red slippers to match. The stockings need n't be silk. They won't show much. Dane can take you in the car to Clermont-Ferrand this afternoon. I want you to be all right, from head to feet—different from any of the other maids."
I did n't doubt that I would be different—very different.
Tap, tap, a knock at the door.
"Ontray!" cried her ladyship.
The door opened. Mr. Herbert Stokes stood on the threshold.
"I say, Lady T ⸺" be began, when he saw the scarlet vision, and stopped.
"What is it?" inquired the wife of his stepfather—rather a complicated relation.
