Occasionally a
touch of individuality was added, when she wanted to have a special
effect. But she never entered a shop; very rarely interviewed a
milliner. It was always done for her. She was easy to dress, being
tall, slim and remarkably pretty. She thought that most women make a
great mistake in allowing dress to be the master instead of the servant
of their good looks; many women were, she considered, entirely crushed
and made insignificant by the beauty of their clothes. The important
thing was to have a distinguished appearance, and this cannot, of
course, easily be obtained without expensive elegance. But Edith was
twenty-eight, and looked younger, so she could dress simply.
This morning Edith had telephoned to her friend, Miss Bennett, an old
schoolfellow who had nothing to do, and adored commissions. Edith,
sitting by the fire or at the 'phone, gave her orders, which were
always decisive, short and yet meticulous. Miss Bennett was a little
late this morning, and Edith had been getting quite anxious to see her.
When she at last arrived--she was a nondescript-looking girl, with a
small hat squashed on her head, a serge coat and skirt, black gloves
and shoes with spats--Edith greeted her rather reproachfully with:
'You're late, Grace.'
'Sorry,' said Grace.
The name suited her singularly badly. She was plain, but had a pleasant
face, a pink complexion, small bright eyes, protruding teeth and a
scenario for a figure, merely a collection of bones on which a dress
could be hung.
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