submitted each garment to a rigid inspection. Her lips were still grim. Her clothes simply wouldn't do. She knew the kind of a crowd Lucy would have around her establishment—male tea-dancers from the Ritz, a couple of foreign celebrities, flapper protegées, idle society women of the Southampton set with their still more idle husbands and marriageable daughters—all correctly clad and cynically critical of other people's clothes. They would inspect her with X-ray eyes. She had formerly had a reputation for dressing charmingly.
There are times in every woman's life when her whole attitude toward the world depends upon whether or not she gets a new gown. Clothes to a sensitive woman are more than so much silk and satin; they are symbols. They advertise to others whether things are going well or ill with their wearer. A clever woman can read her companions' clothes like a barometer. Carmelita was quite aware of this. She felt that her good time at Lucy's depended entirely upon her being well dressed. And she was right. They would be expecting her to appear shabby. If she wore these clothes she would not disappoint them. They would laugh at her behind her back and she would be miserable. Well, she would fool them and Dudley would have to help her. She was entitled to her holiday.
