'Oh, Seraphine, do you really think that I am stouter?' the customer
would ask feebly, panting in her tightened corset.
'Is it that I think so? Why that jumps to the eyes. Madame had always
that little air of Reubens, even in the flower of her youth--but now--it
is a Rubens of the Fabourg du Temple.'
And horrified at the idea of her vulgarised charms the meek matron would
consent to encase herself in one of Seraphine's severest corsets, called
in bitterest mockery _a la sante_--at five guineas--in order that the
dressmaker might measure her for a forty-guinea gown.
'A plain satin gown, my dear, with an eighteenpenny frilling round the
neck and sleeves, and not so much trimming as would go round my little
finger. It is positive robbery,' the matron told her friends afterwards,
not the less proud of her skin-tight high shouldered sleeves and the
peerless flow of her train.
Seraphine was an artist in complexions, and it was she who provided her
middle-aged and elderly customers with the lilies and roses of youth.
Lady Kirkbank's town complexion was superintended by Seraphine,
sometimes even manipulated by those harpy-like claws.
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