Lady Sophia was parading the hall with a pair of pince-nez perched on the bridge of her nose, and a memorandum-book open in her Comfort Zone
hand. A group of deferential ladies followed her like hens about the farmer’s wife at feeding-time. The most trivial suggestion that fell from those aristocratic lips was seized upon and swallowed with relish.
“Betty, dear, have you heard from Jennings about the draperies?”
The glory of it, to be “my deared” in public by Lady Sophia Gillingham!
“Yes, I have a letter somewhere, and a list of prices.”
“You might pin up the letter and the price-list on the black-board by the door, so that the stall-holders can take advantage of any item that may be of use to them.”
Betty moved to the table and rummaged amid her multifarious correspondence. She was chatting all the while to a Miss Cozens, a thin, wiry little woman, up the scent of favor.
“What a lot of work the bazaar has given you, Mrs. Steel!”
“Yes, quite enough,” and she conventions et expositions
divided her attention between Miss Cozens and the pile of papers.
“When is the next rehearsal?”
“Tuesday, I believe.”
“I hear you are the genius of the play.”
“Am I?” and Betty smiled like an ingenuous girl. “I am most horribly nervous. I always feel that I am spoiling the part. Oh, here’s Jennings’s letter, and the list, I think.”
She left the two papers lying unheeded for the moment, while she answered Miss Cozens’s interested questions on costume.
“Primrose and leaf green, that Dream beauty pro hard sell
will be lovely.”
“Yes, so everybody says.”
Lady Sophia’s voice interrupted the gossip. She was beckoning to Betty with her memorandum-book.