As Letty listened to her companion’s denunciations, she felt terrified; never had she assisted at such a scene, or beheld anyone make such an absolute surrender to fury. What a frantic temper, who could withstand it? How could anyone cope with such violent vituperation, such frenzied threats? She felt half inclined to creep out of sight, and hide herself in one of the great wardrobes. Meanwhile Mrs. Corbett figuratively brandishing the copied gown, raged and stormed: in voluble French she rent the discomfited dressmaker, who presently finding spirit and speech, in ten times more fluent language, poured forth her plausible apologies. The uproar was such, that milliners and _mannequins_ assembled at a discreet distance, in order to hear and to see. “_Tiens! c’était Madame Cor--bett--quelle femme!_” After a time the battle waned, the fury of the customer abated. She had gained her point, the _gown was to be taken back_! Deceitful Tartare, believing Madame had departed for England, had ventured to make several copies of what was termed “La Robe Odalisque.” When peace was proclaimed, having recovered breath and composure, the victor commanded a display of hats and gowns; these were promptly and politely exhibited, and three costumes were selected by Mrs. Corbett--whose taste was for the flamboyant and bizarre. She also set aside several hats and a tea-gown; and before Letty could protest, or interfere, she found herself fitted out in what ecstatic Madame declared to be ‘_tous ce qu’il y a de plus ravissante et plus chic!_’ and added that as the young lady had ‘a stock figure,’ all the robes would be ready in a few hours. Now that his wife was provided with a suitable maid, and smart outfit, Blagdon saw no reason to postpone his journey, and he and Letty (wearing a most amazing toque) took their departure for London. As the train moved away from the platform of ‘Le Nord,’ Lady Slater turned to her companion, and repeated: “See us at Sharsley for the hunting--you _bet_ he will! My dear Lola, you have made the poor child a figure of fun--that toque is the sort of thing a lunatic would make--and wear!” “Well, yes, it’s a little _outré_--one of Tartare’s latest,” and she laughed maliciously. “I wonder Letty did not kick!” “Oh, she’s only a child--a simpleton!” “And looks pretty in anything--that’s the _worst_ of her, eh?” “Her looks are a matter of opinion,” declared Mrs. Corbett stiffly. “I can’t say that _I_ admire chocolate-box profiles; and I can tell you one thing--though you may have seen it for yourself, my clever Tatty--our beloved Blag is _deadly_ sick of the girl already.” “Ah, well, poor thing, I can’t help feeling sorry for her; she’s too heavily handicapped.” “Bah!” exclaimed Mrs. Corbett, “she’s out of her place altogether. She ought to have married an evangelical curate.”