Madame’s horrified face changed, as if under a spell, to one of abject despair; and a menacing frown convulsed the puffy features of Mrs. Pletheridge, while she burst out of her gorgeous sheath with a petulant haste which expressed her inward perturbation better than words could have done.  For a minute one could have heard a flower drop in the fitting-room; then the offended customer spoke, and her words, when she found them, were not lacking in either force or effectiveness.  “No, there’s no use trying on anything else, I have an appointment at Cambon’s.”  Cambon was Dinard’s hated and wholly incompetent rival; and until this illuminating instant Madame had never suspected that her particular Mrs. Pletheridge had ever entered the high white doors of Cambon’s establishment.

“But, surely, we have something else.  There is a lovely Doucet model—­in white and silver—­”

But no, Mrs. Pletheridge would have none of the lovely model.  “Give me my skirt at once,” she commanded haughtily, bending her opulent bosom and holding the lacy frills of her petticoat together while Agnes, the youngest and the gentlest of the assistants, knelt at her feet with her dress skirt held invitingly open on the floor.  As she inserted the toe of her exquisitely shod foot into the opening, she remarked maliciously:  “It is impossible to find decent clothes in New York—­one might as well give up trying.  Paris dressmakers send you only their failures.”  And, having crushed Madame to silence, she finished her dressing, fastened her black lace veil with a flying swallow in diamonds, flung her feather boa over her shoulders, and taking up her gold chain bag, studded with rubies, marched out of the establishment with all the pomp and impressiveness of a military parade.

“I’ve lost her.  She will never come back,” moaned Madame, and burst into tears.

“But she couldn’t possibly have worn that gown.  She would have found it out as soon as she got home,” replied Gabriella reassuringly, though her heart was almost as heavy as Madame’s.

It was all her fault, of course, as Madame, recovering her voice as she lost her temper, began immediately to tell her.  It was all her fault, and yet how could she have stood there and lied to the woman in cold blood because Madame expected it of her as a part of her work?  That she had infuriated Madame and imperilled her position she realized perfectly; but, realizing this, she still felt that she could not have told Mrs. Pletheridge that the gown was becoming to her.  “There are times when one has to be honest no matter what happens,” she thought rebelliously, while she went back to the workroom.  Had Madame discharged her on the spot she would not have been surprised, and it was with a sensation of relief that she presently saw the forewoman measuring a dose of aromatic spirits of ammonia, and heard that the crisis was passing.  A little later, when she went into the showroom with a hat for Miss Bellman, she encountered Madame bonneted, cloaked, panting, with moist eyes and raddled cheeks, preparing to take a slow airing in a hansom.  As she was assisted into the vehicle by Miss Murphy and the driver, Madame pressed her beringed hand to her forehead with a despairing gesture; then the driver cracked his whip, the horse started, and the hansom disappeared up Fifth Avenue.