A FIVER IN TIME.

Waikato Times, Volume 98, Issue 16096, 20 September 1924, Page 15 (Supplement)

A FIVER IN TIME.

(By Manning Campbell.) "A poem in peach-coloured brocade. The draperies are lined with bronze rod it has a train that sweeps In a divine line from the hips.' Mrs Everett's hands completed her description of the dress with a gesture copied unconscious y from the i persuasive lady who presides over the i Maison Lucienne. „„„ or , | Mr Everett grunted. He was never lat his best at breakfast, and it was I rather hard that he should be expected to rave over a dress that he had I never seen, especially when he knew i that his wife's allowance was expended, and that the privilege of footing | the bill for the poem in question would be his. J . , "What's the price?" he asked shortly. - , . „ .. "I'm afraid I forgot to ask, said his wife. "My mind was lifted above such thoughts." "Well, if it's up to Lucienne s usual level, I wonder your mind isn't frostbitten," said her -husband bitterly. 'Have you bought it?" "No, George." Some nervousness underlay Mrs Everett's manner. She had a shrewd suspicion that the price of the peach brocade frock would constitute a record even for the Maison Lucienne, and she was fairly sure that George was aware of the state of her finances. "I wanted you to see it first, dear,' she went on. "I know you think that I I'm extravagant over my clothes, but [really this is a chance that may not j come again. Never have I seen a i dress that express.es me so exactly." Mrs Everett was artistic. That is i to say, that she excused herself from .j unpleasant duties, and permitted her- | self sundry indulgences on the grounds iof her temperament. Her dress and | gestures were slightly exotic. She jworc hei black hair shingled, and the I impression she conveyed was one of • sallow intensity. *

George Everett was a Philistine.' He earned a large income on the Stock P]* change, and was known as a thoroughly shrewd man who seldom came out on the wrong side in a deal. A burly, ginger-coloured man, who knew his world, and expected the best of everything and value for his money. Only over his wife was he weak. He gave her a very generous allowance, which she habitually exceeded, and he generally came to her rescue when her money was exhausted. 'lhis time he was putting up an unusually stout resistance, and his wife regretted the over-confidence which had led her to broach the subject at breakfast instead of waiting until the day should have mellowed him. "The last dress you had from Lucienne, about a month ago, expressed you to the tune of £45," said he, helping himself to marmalade. "I don't stint you, and I like you to dress well, but this Lucienne woman's a common sharper, and ought to be closed by the police." '•Oh, no, George; honestly, you're wrong. Money is not her main object. I want you to come with me and see her, then you will understand. She's not an ordinary dressmaker; she really studies and clothes the individuality of her clients. When you see this dress on Danet you will realise that."

George grunted again, and continued his breakfast thoughtfully. "All right," he said at last. "I'll come and see Madame Lucienne and the peach-coloured dress on the mannequin—what's her name, Danel? —at three o'clock to-day. That suit you? Right. Then I'll meet you there. 152, Sloane Street, isn't it?" He departed for the office, and Anita Everett registered another victory in her mind. Surely, in the feminine atmosphere of the Maison Lucienne lie would become as clay in her hands and in the capable hands of Madame. She was proud of her dominion over her husband, for she knew that, before marriage, he hfftl gained considerable experience of her sex. Various stories of his pre-matrimonial affairs had reached her, and although her knowledge of his past increased his value in her eyes, yet it invested her position witli some anxiety. Over any other man she might have tyrannised, but she was careful to handle George very gently. Throughout the morning she suffered from a slightly uneasy feeling that she had gone perhaps a little too far —that it might have been wiser to restrain her need for further self-ex-pression until her next quarter's cheque came in. But then she pictured the lines of that matchless frock. Allowing always for her artistic temperament, she felt that' she could not have acted otherwise, and when she went round to Sloane Street that afternoon the atmosphere of the Maison Lucienne confirmed her in this opinion. The plaoe was small and exquisitely appointed. The reception room was furnished in grey relieved by splashes or orange. Three or four armchairs, a Louis XIV. table bearing a bowl of roses, and a bright log fire in an open grate—none of this suggested a shop. From the first the victim's mind was lured from the sordid commerce of buying and selling, price and bills. The atmosphere that Madame strove so successfully to create was one of aesthetic endeavour. Her transactions achieved a plane whereon her clients felt that any mention of money would be vulgar, and the result was that very few of them even asked the prices of the inspirations wherewith Lucienne equipped them. "Ah, Madame!" she greeted Mrs Everett. "You have returned to order the gown?" "No, I am still undecided, but Mr Everett will be here in a few minutes. I wanted him to see the dress before I bought it." "Ah! and Monsieur is as intelligent, as artistic, as Madame?" "Wll "

And from Mrs Everett's slight hesitation the dressmaker exactly grasped the situation. She decided that, since it was with the husband she was to have to deal, the dress was as good as sold. With a woman, she knew, you never can tell. A woman is irresolute and capricious. One day she is willing to traffic her soul for a frock; two days later she wonders why she ever thought it smart. Hut a man—he's easy to deal with. If he will not sign a cheque to please the woman, he will do it to save his pride. Lucienne always had a welcome for a client's husband. "When Monsieur sees the dress on Madame," she said confidently, "he will supplicate her to buy it. Ah, here is Monsieur." I!e was exactly on time, and both women were struck with the air of self-possession with which ho entered. The average man in a dressmaker's shop looks about as comfortable as a walrus on dry land, but George Everett was entirely at homo. He greeted his wife cheerfully and Madame composedly, and together they went through into the model room, where Madame's best effects worn obtained. The room was black and while, soft-

ly lighted and luxurious. Husband and wife seated themselves on a sofa facing a small raised stage carpeted

with black, and backed by curtains of grey velvet. Madame Lucienne took up her position behind the sofa, prepared to supplement the temptation of the eyes -with honeyed words. "I am, of oourse, only showing the peach model," she said. "I have no other which I would permit Madame to lake. Danet shall show it." And she struck a little bell on the table behind her.

She kept but two mannequins. One was beautiful, but the other was— Danet. The one and only Danet, for whom the stage was now so picturesquely set. The grey velvet curtains parted, and she appeared, arrogant perfection in every line. She draped herself for a moment across the opening, and then swung slowly out on to the stage, hip by hip. Danet's body, from the crown of her sleek black head to her arched instep, was flawless, and from her carriage it was plain that she gloried in her beauty. On her, at any rate, the peach-coloured frock justified Mrs Everett's eulogies. The gleaming folds hung softly, moulding to her shape as she turned her back to show the line over flank and hip. Then she swung round and advanced up the tiny stage towards the sofa. Anita turned to her husband. "Well, do you like ," she began, but the question died on her lips.

George Everett was sitting rigid, a look of stark horror on his face. He was staring at the mannequin as though a malignant ghost has risen from the past, and his lips framed a name that was not Danet. His wife turned in time to see the model's assurance stripped from her as her eyes met those of the man on the sofa. For a moment it seemed that she would faint, but with an obvious effort she pulled, herself together and mechanically continued her parade. Her training helped her through; she postured and turned, showing off the frock that the man was to buy for the woman at his side. Her supple grace remained, but where she had flaunted with superb selfconfidence she faltered now, her vitality numbed. It was clear that the lives of these two people had once run close together, and that this meeting was an ordeal to them both. Mrs Everett, watching her husband, could see how the strain told on him. The line of his jaw was firmly set, and the knuckles of the hand that gripped the sofa showed white under the pressure. Anita felt that she must speak to break the tension.

"What do you think of it?" she asked.

He pulled himself together and turned his eyes from the stage. "Lovely," he said. "Suit you perfectly." Madame Lucienne smiled in triumph. She had seen that something was going wrong, but this looked like a happy ending. It was a shock to her when Mrs Everett rose brusquely from the sofa.

"No," she said. "I think it's all wrong somewhere. I hate it. Gome on, George, we ought to hurry." And, cutting short Lucienne's impassioned blandishments, she swept out of the shop. In their car, going homewards, she threw herself into her husband's arms in a frenzy of weeping, and he, his face rather grimly set, comforted her as best he might. He did not offer her a word of explanation, nor did. she press him, for she dreaded what her questioning might bring to light. A letter received by Danet next morning might have given her the key to the incident.

"Dear Mademoiselle" (it read), "Enclosed a £5 note, according to our agreement of yesterday morning, as commission on the dress which my wife did not buy. May I compliment you on your performance?—Yours faithfully, G. K. Everett."