“My dear, how well you look! I knew that dress would be becoming!" she exclaimed, generously transferring her self-approval to Justine; and adding, as the latter moved toward her: “I wish Westy Gaines could see you now!”
“Well, he will presently,” Miss Brent rejoined, ignoring the slight stress on the name.
Mrs. Dressel continued to brood on her maternally. “Justine—I wish you’d tell me! You say you hate the life you’re leading now—but isn’t there somebody who might?”
“Give me another, with lace dresses in it?” Justine’s slight shrug might have seemed theatrical, had it not been a part of the ceaseless dramatic play of her flexible person. “There might be, perhaps… only I’m not sure—” She broke off whimsically.
“Not sure of what?”
“That this kind of dress might not always be a little tight on the shoulders.”
“Tight on the shoulders? What do you mean, Justine? My clothes simply hang on you!”
“Oh, EfDIe dear, don’t you remember the fable of the wings under the skin, that sprout when one meets a pair of kindred shoulders?” And, as Mrs. Dressel bent on her a brow of unenlightenment—“Well, it doesn’t matter: I only meant that I’ve always been
afraid good clothes might keep my wings from sprout-
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