"Oh, oh!" cried Constance. "How your soul must grovel! However, it's the highest compliment Sir Mark can pay you, Mrs. Crane, because I know he has an unholy passion for soft crabs."
"I will pay you the highest compliment of all," said Mrs. Willoughby, "I will ask you, who is your dressmaker?"
"I made this gown myself," answered Annette, with a pretty smile.
Crane thought he should have gone through the floor into the cellar. He had never in his life felt such a rage of shame. There was Constance Maitland in a gown that shouted out its French nationality in every line and fold. Mrs. Willoughby and Miss Beekman wore the smartest of smart creations—probably not one of them had ever done a stitch of sewing in their lives, while here was Annette announcing that she made her own gown! The next thing he expected her to proclaim was that she had just completed six suits of pajamas for him, all made with her own hands and feet, on her own sewing-machine at Circleville.
Three persons at the table—Thorndyke, Constance, and Annette herself—saw how annoyed
