"Naturally."
"Heavenly—divine," Ken laughed. "I'll love it. Where is the mansion?"
"That, too, I am not privileged to say. I do not know."
Ken was guided in his choice of the cloth of gold gown by Madame. For more than an hour, he watched a fashion parade displayed on the figures of Madame's girls. With impersonal seriousness the models showed Ken the latest styles. It was Madame herself who made the final decision. Her secretary, whom she called Mimi Minetta, was a business-like little woman, distinguished mainly by the perceptible blond moustache she wore on her upper lip. She measured Ken from head to foot.
"Tomorrow, we will fit you, on Saturday at six, the try-on. As for the foundation, wig and other details—leave that to me."
The prospect of attending a "drag" colored Ken's mood to vivid scarlet. He was thrilled. He pivoted with unconcealed impatience for the hour of the party. Between the matinee and evening shows that Saturday, he visited Madame's atelier for the final fitting.
Serious Mile. Minetta admitted Ken to the little room of canary and black.
"I presume, Monsieur has brought none of the appurtenances for the costume," she said.
"Meaning what?" Ken asked.
"Pads—straps—and so on."
"Nothing."
"In that case, may I suggest you permit me to dress you? Madame tells me this is your début."
"This will be my entrance into Boston society."
