In one room Mrs. Barnes sat on her bed in an agony of indecision and a camisole, wondering how the seams of her only evening frock could be made black with the blue-black ink that had been given her at the stationer's shop in error
Mr. James Harris, a little bearded man with long legs and a short body, stood in front of his glass, frankly baffled by the problem of how to keep the top of his trousers from showing above the opening of his low-cut evening waistcoat, an abandoned garment that seemed determined to show all that it was supposed to hide.
Miss Sikkum was engaged in a losing game with delicacy. On her lap lay the Brixton "Paris model blouse," which she had adorned with narrow black velvet ribbon. Should she or should she not enlarge the surface of exposure? If she did Miss Wangle might think her fast; if she did not Lord Peter might think her suburban.
Mr. Sefton was at work upon his back hair, striving to remove from his reflection in the glass, a likeness to a sandy cockatoo.
Mr. Cordal was vainly struggling with a voluminous starched shirt, which as he bent seemed determined to give him the appearance of a pouter pigeon.
To each his tragedy and to all their anguish. Even Miss Wangle had her problem. Should she or should she not remove the lace from the modest V in her black silk evening gown. The thought of the bishop, however, proved too much for her, and
