cigarette from her carmined lips to get a better view.
Carmelita surveyed herself in a cluster of glistening mirrors, her hand unconsciously stroking the soft, rich material. She was beautiful, unusually beautiful in this most romantic of all costumes, she told herself. Her father would be pleased. He would not be sorry he had yielded to her and allowed her to journey to Paris, to buy her wedding trousseau. And her fiancé—here Carmelita sighed. She turned to M. Doucet and suggested a few minor alterations, then retired to change back into her chic afternoon attire.
"Mademoiselle desires to see the rest of her trousseau?" the modiste asked when she reappeared.
"That was the arrangement, was it not?" Carmelita asked coldly.
"Heavens, is there another act?" Lucy sighed.
"We've hardly begun, my dear," the bride-to-be smiled, tapping her American friend consolingly upon her thin shoulder. Carmelita was thoroughly enjoying herself among these dainty, extravagant things.
The brightening eye of Jack Hodge forecasted what was coming. Carmelita had arranged to inspect her purchases by means of a private fashion show of carefully selected
