“And if we do bring it home to her, Polly,” pursued Miss Smithson, clutching her friend’s fat wrist, “far be it from me to be hard on a fellow-creature, however perverted and brazen. I’d rather put the matter before Miss Pounce herself--ay, and before that good creature, her aunt, my Lady Kilcroney’s woman, who’s had a mort of trouble with her already--and get the abandoned gal to send in her resignation, rather than upset my cousin! Anna-Maria has a weak heart.” Polly Popple pondered. Both prudent virgins exchanged a look. It dawned upon these sensitive consciences that Madame Mirabel might not be of their way of thinking; might, in fine, be disposed to put modes before morals, especially as custom was increasing every day and the fame of Pounce millinery spreading far and wide. “Maybe you’re right,” said Polly thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll be back as soon as I can, dear, and let you know what I’ve drawn out of her.” The showroom was empty of custom, the hour being still early, and Pamela, singing a little song under her breath, was engaged, with the bright energy which characterised her, in superintending the disposal of the wares. She had fanciful schemes of colour differing with each day, and subtly suited to the mood most likely to be engendered by the weather. Thus, on a cold, bleak autumn afternoon you might find a flamingo flame of feather calling you through the glass; and on a torrid July morning such as the present, the coolest and most ethereal creams and greys; or a rustic straw with a wreath of moon daisies that would set you dreaming of the country. Even such a creation was Miss Pounce now holding in her hand when, rather out of breath--for she was of a stout habit and a congested type of comeliness--Polly Popple came heavily up to her. “And pray, Miss Pounce,” said the assistant, while, at the abruptness of the address, unpreceded by the usual “Good morning,” all the young ladies turned to stare--“pray, Miss Pounce, was you by any chance Richmond way yesterday?” Polly was no diplomatist. “And what’s that to you, Miss Popple?” responded Pamela. “As a matter of fact, I was; but ’tain’t none of your business, as I’m aware! Girls, what are you doing?” Pamela scented mischief, and resented the tone of the question, which rang in unmistakable challenge. Nevertheless, she remained good-humoured. “Perhaps,” said the other darkly, “’tis more my business than you think of. Might I further inquire if you was wearing a pink gown, miss?” “Yes, Popple, I was. A pink gown, flounced to the waist, muslin. A sweet thing it is, and suits me uncommon. Perhaps you’d like to know if I wear a white _bouffand_ to it, and the style of hat?” “Oh, never mind the hat, Miss Pounce! Since you are so obleeging as to permit me another question, might I ask if you was a-setting in a garden a-holding of a child upon your lap?”