18
The showrooms of Ambrosine, Ltd., were very pure in appearance.
The walls were a shade just off white - the thick pile carpet was son neutral as to be almost colourless - so was the upholstery.
Chromium gleamed here and there, and on one wall was a gigantic geometric design in vivid blue and lemon yellow.
The room had been designed by Mr. Sydney Sandford - the newest and youngest decorator of the moment.
Egg Lytton Gore sat in an armchair of modern design - faintly reminiscent of a dentist’s chair, and watched exquisite snake-like young women with beautiful bored faces pass sinuously before her.
Egg was principally concerned with endeavouring to appear as though fifty or sixty pounds was a mere bagatelle to pay for a dress.
Mrs. Dacres, looking as usual marvellously unreal, was (as Egg put it to herself) doing her stuff.
“Now, do you like this?
Those shoulder knots - rather amusing, don’t you think?
And the waistline’s rather penetrating.
I shouldn’t have the red lead colour, though - I should have it in the new colour - Espanol - most attractive - like mustard, with a dash of cayenne in it.
How do you like Vin Ordinaire?
Rather absurd, isn’t it? Quite penetrating and ridiculous.
Clothes simply must not be serious nowadays.”
“It’s very difficult to decide,” said Egg. “You see” - she became confidential - “I’ve never been able to afford any clothes before.
We were always so dreadfully poor.
I remembered how simply marvellous you looked that night at Crow's Nest, and I thought, Now that I’ve got money to spend, I shall go to Mrs. Dacres and ask her to advise me. I did admire you so much that night.”
“My dear, how charming of you.
I simply adore dressing a young girl.
It’s so important that girls shouldn’t look raw - if you know what I mean.”
“Nothing raw about you,” thought Egg ungratefully. “Cooked to a turn, you are.”
“You’ve got so much personality,” continued Mrs. Dacres. “You mustn’t have anything at all ordinary.
Your clothes must be simple and penetrating - and just faintly visible.
You understand?
Do you want several things?”
“I thought about four evening frocks, and a couple of day things and a sports suit or two - that sort of thing.”
The honey of Mrs. Dacres’s manner became sweeter.
It was fortunate that she did not know that at that moment Egg’s bank balance was exactly fifteen pound twelve shillings, and that the said balance had got to last her until December.
More girls in gowns filed past Egg.
In the intervals of technical conversation, Egg interspersed other matters.
“I suppose you’ve never been to Crow's Nest since?” she said.
“No. My dear, I couldn’t.
It was so upsetting - and, anyway, I always think Cornwall is rather terribly artisty ... I simply cannot bear artists.
Their bodies are always such a curious shape.”
“It was a shattering business, wasn’t it?” said Egg. “Old Mr. Babbington was rather a pet, too.”
“Quite a period piece, I should imagine,” said Mrs. Dacres.
“You’d met him before somewhere, hadn’t you?”
“That dear old dug-out?
Had I?
I don’t remember.”
“I think I remember his saying so,” said Egg.
“Not in Cornwall, though.
I think it was at a place called Gilling.”
“Was it?” Mrs. Dacres’s eyes were vague. “No, Marcelle - Petite Scandale is what I want - the Jenny model - and after that blue Patou.”
“Wasn’t it extraordinary,” said Egg, “about Sir Bartholomew being poisoned?”
“My dear, it was too penetrating for words!
It’s done me a world of good.
All sort of dreadful women come and order frocks from me just for the sensation. Now this Patou model would be perfect for you.
Look at that perfectly useless and ridiculous frill -it makes the whole thing adorable.