“Let me see that evening dress once more,” said Katherine⁠—“the pinky mauve one.”

Virginie appeared, circling slowly.

“That is the prettiest of all,” said Katherine, as she surveyed the exquisite draperies of mauve and grey and blue. “What do you call it?”

“ Soupir d’automne ; yes, yes, that is truly the dress of Mademoiselle.”

What was there in these words that came back to Katherine with a faint feeling of sadness after she had left the dressmaking establishment.