She might be a school-girl of
fifteen. A delicate lacy night-gown was one of the most becoming
things one wore. It was a pity one couldn't wear them to parties.
There was nothing the least indecent about them. Millicent Hardwicke
had been photographed in one of hers and no one had suspected
what it was. Yes; she would send a little note to Coombe. She
knew Madame Helene had only let her have her beautiful mourning
because--. The things she had created were quite unique--thin,
gauzy, black, floating or clinging. She had been quite happy the
morning she gave Helene her orders. Tomorrow when she had slept
through the night and it was broad daylight again she would be
able to think of things to say in her letter to Lord Coombe. She
would have to be a little careful because he did not like things
to bore him.--Death and widows might--a little--at first. She had
heard him say once that he did not wish to regard himself in the
light of a charitable institution. It wouldn't do to frighten him
away. Perhaps if he continued coming to the house and seemed very
intimate the trades-people might be managed.
She felt much less helpless and when she was ready for bed she
took a little more cognac. The flush had faded from her eye-lids
and bloomed in delicious rose on her cheeks. As she crept between
the cool sheets and nestled down on her pillow she had a delightful
sense of increasing comfort--comfort.
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