There were few young women even among wage-earners who couldn't make a fairly brave show in a neat tailor gown or a "Sunday best" for Church Parade. But only the Truly Rich could have such heavenly "undies," and only the young and lovely--lovely of figure as well as of face--could look in them more thrilling than the wondrous wax ladies in shop windows, or the willowy dreams of line-artists in fashion magazines.
Zélie had never had, and felt that she never would have (though she was sure she _ought_ to have!) such things as Marise Sorel wore in her bedroom. They were utterly absurd, almost indecent, she told herself. What could be more idiotic for cold weather than a pale pink, low-necked, short-sleeved chiffon nightgown, with the only solid thing about it a few embroidered wild roses! What more brainless than a _robe de chambre_ of deeper pink silk georgette, trimmed with sable fur in all the places where fur couldn't possibly give warmth?
She, Zélie Marks, wore comfortable delaine night-dresses at this time of year, and wadded kimonos. She respected herself for her economy and good sense. But she wished she were Miss Sorel!
"Miss Marks," said Marise, "can you keep a secret?"
Zélie smiled. "In my work, I have to keep a good many."
"I suppose you do! Well, will you keep one for me?"
"That's a promise! Now--I shall surprise you very much."
"Pardon me, Miss Sorel," said Zélie, in rather a stilted, professional manner, "but that doesn't surprise me at all."
"You haven't heard the name of the man yet."
"I hope you don't think me presumptuous?"
"Of course not! Why should it be--such a long word? Guessing's free! But I wonder if you _have_ guessed?"
Zélie allowed herself to look slightly bored. If Miss Sorel were going to be married, and leave for England, she wouldn't want a secretary long, so there was no need to grovel! "Do you wish me to try?" she asked primly.
Marise had known she would say that, yet she blushed. "Lord Severance and I are quite old pals," she replied. "This is something much newer and more exciting! I'm going to marry your friend Major Garth."
There were few warmer-hearted girls, few who hated more to give pain, than Marise, yet as she spoke she fixed her eyes--minx-like, if not lynx-like--on the face of Miss Marks. Even when she saw it go pale--that greenish pallor of olive complexions--and then a dull, unbecoming red which gave the dark eyes a bloodshot effect, she wasn't conscious of repentance for what she had done. She had an odd, unpleasant feeling that Miss Marks had no right to turn pale and red about a man _she_ was going to marry. So instead of softening, she went on, hard as nails.