VIOLETTE was sewing at her mother's house. She was making a waist to wear at the Fair, with the model before her, in a catalogue from Paris.
This year, the city fashion demanded a rather low neckline; and Violette was trying to impose it on the village of Chantepie, where some of the girls were very dressy.
For herself she had chosen an extreme model, cut in a low point in front. Still, she hesitated to cut so boldly into the goods.
The postman opened the door:
"Mademoiselle Violette! 'personal.' A love letter, my pretty!"
She did not reply, merely looking at the curious address, penciled in a strange handwriting.
As soon as the postman had gone she tore the envelope open. At the first lines, something like pity came into her eyes for the handsome young fellow whose love had flattered her vanity and who was now damaged forever.
But it was only a flicker. Behind her red lip a sharp tooth gleamed. Would she go out? Would she go to the Fair with the other girls? Really now, what a fool he was! It was getting to be ridiculous!
She shook her brown head, bristling with curl papers, and mumbled:
"For one that's lost—there'll be two found."
And as, at the age of twenty, she was experienced in the ways of men and knew full well what bait they liked best, she bent over the basted blouse and, with two strokes of the scissors, cut a deeper V than the one in the catalogue.