Argentine meat queen, who had insisted on having those models least suited to her flamboyant type of beauty. She scrutinised Katherine with keen, clever eyes. “Yes—yes, it will be a pleasure. Mademoiselle has a very good figure; for her the simple lines will be best. She is also très anglaise . Some people it would offend them if I said that, but Mademoiselle no. Une belle Anglaise , there is no style more delightful.”
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.”
“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.