She
slipped into a chaotic room where there were heaps of fabrics thrown
about like rubbish, long streamers of samples littering a desk full
of papers.
A sumptuous creature of stately manner bowed creakily to Kedzie,
and Kedzie said, trying to remember the pronunciation:
"Lady Pole-Carrier?"
A little plainly dressed woman replied: "Yes, my child. So you're
the Adair thing that Ferriday is gone half-witted over. He's just
been talking my ear off about you. Sit down. Stop where you are.
Let me see you. Turn around. I see." She turned to the stately dame.
"Rather nice, isn't she, Mrs. Congdon? H'mm!" She beckoned Kedzie
to come close. "What are your eyes like?" She lorgnetted the
terrified girl, as if she were a throat-specialist. "Take off that
horrid hat. Let me see your hair. H'mm! Rather nice hair, isn't it,
Mrs. Congdon?--that is, if she knew how to do it. Let me see. Yes,
I get your color, but it will be a job to suit you and that infernal
movie-camera. It kills my colors so! I have to keep remembering that
crimson photographs black and cream is dirty, and blue and yellow
are just nothing."
Mr. Charles came in to say that Mrs. Noxon was outside. Kedzie
recognized the great name with terror. Lady Powell-Carewe snapped:
"Tell the old camel I'm ill. I can't see her to-day. I'm ill to
everybody to-day. I've taken a big job on."
This was sublime. To have aristocrats turned away for her!
While Madame prowled among the fabrics and bit her lorgnon in
study, Kedzie looked over the big albums filled with photographs
of the creations of the great creatrix.
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