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Those mornings at the shops were hardly the least
agreeable of Lesbia's hours. To a girl brought up in one perpetual
_tete-a-tete_ with green hill-sides and silvery watercourses, the West
End shops were as gardens of Eden, as Aladdin Caves, as anything,
everything that is rapturous and intoxicating. Lesbia, the clear-headed,
the cold-hearted, fairly lost her senses when she went into one of those
exquisite shops, where a confusion of brocades and satins lay about in
dazzling masses of richest colour, with here and there a bunch of
lilies, a cluster of roses, a tortoise-shell fan, an ostrich feather, or
a flounce of peerless Point d'Alencon flung carelessly athwart the sheen
of a wine-dark velvet or golden-hued satin.
Lady Maulevrier had said Lesbia was to have _carte blanche_; so Lesbia
bought everything she wanted, or fancied she wanted, or that the
shop-people thought she must want, or that Lady Kirkbank happened to
admire. The shop-people were so obliging, and so deeply obliged by
Lesbia's patronage. She was exactly the kind of customer they liked to
serve.


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