The demeanour of a dreaming duchess was suddenly put off. She screamed out directions to various mannequins. “Clothilde, Virginie, quickly, my little ones, the little tailleur gris clair and the robe de soirée ‘ soupir d’automne .’ Marcelle, my child, the little mimosa suit of crêpe de chine.”

It was a charming morning. Marcelle, Clothilde, Virginie, bored and scornful, passed slowly round, squirming and wriggling in the time-honoured fashion of mannequins. The Duchess stood by Katherine and made entries in a small notebook.

“An excellent choice, Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle has great goût . Yes, indeed. Mademoiselle cannot do better than those little suits if she is going to the Riviera, as I suppose, this winter.”