Joyce, at breakfast that morning, had announced firmly that if I
really loved her I would take the pattern up to town with me and "see
what I could do." What she failed to realise was that, if I ventured
alone into the midst of so intimately feminine a world as Bibby and
Renns' for the purpose of matching stuff called Pink Georgette, I
should become practically incapable of doing anything at all.
The only redeeming feature about the whole nerve-racking business was
that he found me as soon as he did.
"Good afternoon, Sir," he said in a most ingratiating voice. "What can
we have the pleasure of showing you, Sir?"
He was tall and handsome, with a perfectly waxed moustache and a
faultless frock-coat. He bowed before me with a sort of solicitous
curve to his broad shoulders, and the way he massaged one hand with
the other had a highly soothing effect.
"Pink georgette, Sir? Certainly, Sir." To my inexpressible relief he
seemed to consider it the most likely request in the world.
A moment before I had been drifting hopelessly, in a state of most
acute self-consciousness. But with him to guide me I set off quite
boldly.
At what proved to be exactly the right spot he paused.
"Miss Robinson," he called; "pink georgette."
With a polite introductory wave of the hand he motioned me towards
the lady. He hovered about, near by, whilst I opened the bit of
tissue-paper containing the pattern and murmured my needs to Miss
Robinson. His very presence gave me confidence.
When it was all over he came up and led me away. As we emerged into
the stronger light near the door I peered at him closely. Then I
touched him on the arm and beckoned him behind a couple of Paris
models.