“Oh, yes,” said Elsie. That night as she was going to bed, she critically examined her own underwear. Her chemise and drawers were coarse, she wore no stays, and the garters that held up her transparent lisle-thread stockings were plain bands of grimy white elastic. Her short petticoat was white, with a torn flounce, and only the camisole, which showed beneath her transparent blouses, was trimmed with imitation Valenciennes lace and threaded with papery blue ribbons. “What you doing, Elsie?” grumbled Geraldine from her bed. “Get into bed, do; I want to go to sleep.” “Have you seen those things they sell in sets, Geraldine, in some of the High Street shops? Sort of silk combinations and a princess petticoat and nightgown, all to match like?” “I’ve seen them advertised at sale times, in the illustrateds, and beastly indecent they are, too. Why, you can see right through that stuff they’re made of.” Elsie became very thoughtful. Her sister’s words had brought before her mind’s eye an involuntary picture that both startled and repelled her. “Anyway, the prices are something wicked. What’s up, young Elsie?” “Nothing. I heard something to-day that set me wondering, that’s all.” “What?” “Oh, some girl that wanted a pink silk rig-out, that’s all.” “You must have some queer friends. No decent girl would wear those things--only tarts do, unless it’s fine ladies that aren’t any better than they should be, from what the Society papers say.” Geraldine, in her curling-pins and her thick nightgown, looked rigidly virtuous. “Get into bed, do.” “It’s too hot,” sighed Elsie. The room was like a furnace, but neither of them would have dreamed of opening the window after dark. Elsie tossed and turned about for a long while, unable to sleep. She visualised herself in new clothes, in evening dress, which she had never worn, and she thought of the excitement of staying in a big hotel where there would very likely be a band in the evenings and, of course, late dinner every night. If only it had been anyone but Mr. Williams! But then, he was the only rich man she knew. “It’s a shame,” thought Elsie, “that I shouldn’t have opportunities of meeting other men like him, only different. I wish I’d gone in for manicure--I’d have met all sorts then.” For a moment she wondered whether her friendship with Williams might not lead to his introducing her to his wealthy friends, but she was shrewd enough to perceive that his first preoccupation would be to keep their connection secret, and that he was of far too cautious a temperament to risk her meeting with men younger and more attractive than himself. Her last waking thought was of the silk set of underclothes, cool and lovely and transparent against her skin.