"It's all delightful; quite delightful. So there is nothing to delay your movements! Can I give you any addresses? I know of quite a good hotel in Paris, where I stay when I run over to buy frocks. Not too fashionable, but very comfortable. Quite ideal for a woman alone. And dressmakers too." Cassandra thawed again at the introduction of a congenial subject. "_Do_ go to my woman! She's the most understanding creature, and knows exactly what will suit you before you have been in the room five minutes." She screwed up her eyes, and looked Mary over with critical gaze. "I think it will be blue for you; a deep full blue, and just a touch of white at the throat." "I've worn blue serge coats and skirts almost every day of my life since I went to school. I'm sick of blue," Mary said, and Cassandra laughed and shuddered at the same moment. It was so preposterous to compare Mary's blue serge with Celine's marvellous concoctions of subtly blended shades. "I'd make a solemn vow never to wear another! I'm a great believer in the influence of clothes. They account for many of the mysteries of human nature. You know how conventional men are,--how horrified at anything the least bit out of the ordinary rut.--It's because they have always to wear coats and trousers cut in the same way, out of the same uninteresting cloths! They never know the complete _bouleversement_ of feeling which a woman experiences every day of her life when she changes from one style of garment to another. You put on a blouse and skirt, and you feel active and gamy; you slip into a tea-gown, and want to talk confidences with a friend; you put on _decolletee_, and feel inclined to flirt, and be frivolous; you wear a tailor-made costume and--go to church! Chronic blue serge would depress a saint. Do go to Celine, Miss Mallison! Let me send you the address!" "I've not decided to go to Paris," Mary said ungraciously, but the next moment she lifted her eyes to Cassandra's face and gave a weak little smile of apology. "I've not decided anything. Not even where to go first. I don't seem to care. You talk about seeing the world, but I don't particularly want to see it. Now that I can go where I choose, I've been trying to think of an interesting place--a place that interests me, I mean, but I can't do it. I've hardly been outside Chumley, and every other place seems unreal. I used to long to travel when I was a girl, but I don't care about it now. I've grown so used to doing nothing. Perhaps it may be different now that I have my own money." She hesitated for a moment, then questioned tentatively: "Of course you... you have always had enough money." "Ye-es! Yes, I suppose I have. My father was a poor man for his position, but we had practically everything we wanted,--horses and carriages, and beautiful gardens, and change when we needed it, and pretty clothes, and--"