He did not immediately storm or rage, as I fully thought he would: he stood silent. But Zélie again interposed.
"She will make a capital petit-maître. Here are the garments, all—all complete: somewhat too large, but I will arrange all that. Come chère amie—belle Anglaise!"
And she sneered, for I was not "belle." She seized my hand, she was drawing me away. M. Paul stood impassible—neutral.
"You must not resist," pursued St. Pierre—for resist I did. "You will spoil all, destroy the mirth of the piece, the enjoyment of the company, sacrifice everything to your amour-propre. This would be too bad—monsieur will never permit this?"
She sought his eye. I watched, likewise, for a glance. He gave her one, and then he gave me one. "Stop!" he said slowly, arresting St. Pierre, who continued her efforts to drag me after her. Everybody awaited the decision. He was not angry, not irritated; I perceived that and took heart.
"You do not like these clothes?" he asked, pointing to the masculine vestments.
"I don't object to some of them, but I won't have them all."
