“I’ll go down to Mamma, if you like. . . .”
“Yes, do, would you?”
Constance went downstairs. In the boudoir, Emilie, in her wedding-dress, was standing in front of a long glass. The heavy white satin crushed her, looked hard and cruel upon her, now that her hair was not done and she tired and pale.
“The bodice doesn’t fit. It will simply have to go back to Brussels,” said Bertha.
“It’s sickening!” said Emilie; and the word sounded almost like a curse between her lips.
“Marianne, will you write the letter? I’ll pin the dress up. Or no, I had better write myself. Constance, do look!”
“There’s a crease here,” said Constance, “but it’s not very bad. Daren’t you have it altered here?”
“Upon my word, I’m paying . . .” Bertha began, but she checked herself and did not say how much. “And to have it fit badly into the bargain!”
“Bertha, Frances asked me to come and see you.”
“What about?”
“There’s some trouble about Ottelientje’s boeboer.”
“I’ll go up,” said Bertha, worn-out though she was.
The maid, holding up Emilie’s train, followed her into the bedroom; Marianne and Constance remained behind alone. Constance saw that Marianne was crying.
“What is it, dear?”
