Clementina, after an intimate interview with a first resentful, then obfuscated and finally boneless and submissive Spriggs, went her way, a sparkle of triumph in her eyes. And then began laborious days, during which she sacrificed many glorious hours of daylight to the arrangements for the dinner-party. She spent an incredible time in antique shops and schools of art needlework, and even haunted places near the London docks hunting for the glass and embroideries and other things she needed. She ordered rare flowers from florists. She wasted her evenings over a water-colour design for the table decoration, and over designs for the menu and name-cards. “It’s going to be a dinner that people shall remember,” she said to Etta. “It’s going to be splendid,” said Etta. “You think of everything, darling, except the one thing—the most important.” “What’s that, child?” “Have you got a dress to wear, darling?” “Dress?” echoed Clementina, staring at the child. “Why, of course. I’ve got my black.” Etta stood aghast. “That old thing you took with you packed anyhow on the motor trip?” “Naturally. Isn’t it good enough for you?” “It’s not for me,” said Etta, growing bold. “I love you in anything. It’s for the other people. Do go and get yourself a nice frock. There’s still time. I’ve never liked to tell you before, dear, but the old one _gapes_ at the back——“—she paused dramatically—“gapes dreadfully.” “Oh, Lord, let it gape,” cried Clementina impatiently. “Don’t worry me.” But Etta continued to worry, with partial success. Clementina obstinately refused to buy new raiment, but consented to call in Miss Pugsley, the little dressmaker round the corner in the King’s Road, who fashioned such homely garments as Clementina deigned to wear, and to hand over the old black dress to her for alterations and repairs. Etta sighed and spent anxious hours with Miss Pugsley and forced a grumbling and sarcastic Clementina to stand half clad while the frumpy rag attained something resembling a fit. “At any rate there are no seams burst and it _does_ hook together,” said Etta, dismally surveying the horror at the final fitting. “Humph!” said Clementina, contemplating herself wryly in the mirror. “I suppose I look like a lady. Now I hope you’re satisfied.” Meanwhile such painting as she did in the intervals of her daily excursions abroad, progressed exceedingly. Tommy coming into the studio one evening caught sight of the picture of the lady in the grey dress standing on its easel. “Stunning!” he cried. “Stunning! You can almost hear the stuff rustle. How the dickens do you get your texture? You’re a holy mystery. By Jove, you are! All this”—he ran his thumb parallel with a fold in the drapery—“all this is a miracle.” He turned and faced her with worshipping eyes in which the tears were ready to spring. “By God, you’re great!”