on the camisoles. Have you put it on all of the nightgowns?"
Miss Plympton's eyes swam, her nose glowed.
"Well, we can't do anything about it now." Christabel sighed again. "Never mind. But please let's try to get this dress right."
Miss Plympton sank on her knees and began pulling with shaking hands at the satin folds. Christabel looked at herself in the mirror. The effect really was exquisite, after all. What a contrast the two reflected figures were. Her young loveliness glowing out of satin pure as snow in moonlight, Miss Plympton with her mouth full of pins, her red nose, her spectacles. Christabel's eyes grew softer as she looked from her own white beauty to the dumpy figure kneeling beside her. Poor old maid, spending her life sewing other women's wedding-dresses! It would make a poignant poem. She said, gently:
"There, that's lovely, Miss Plympton. I knew you could fix it."
