"
It seemed to Cicely that she had never had such a wretched morning.
The loss of sleep the night before left her languid and nervous. Her
cold seemed to grow worse every moment, and madame and the forewoman
were both unusually cross. She felt ill and feverish when she took her
seat again after the lunch hour.
Presently madame came in, looking sharply about her, and walked up to
Cicely with the rosebud silk skirt in her hands. "Here!" she said,
hurriedly. "Put ze band on zis. Ze ozair woman who do zis alway have
gone home ill. An' be in one beeg haste, also, for ze time have arrive
for ze las' fitting. You hear?"
Cicely took it up, pleased and smiling. After all, she was to have a
part in making the beautiful rose gown that would surely give Miss
Balfour such pleasure. Her quick needle flew in and out, but her
thoughts flew still faster.
She had had a gown like that herself once; at least it was something
like that pattern, although the material was nothing but lawn. She had
worn it first on the day when she was fifteen years old, and her
mother had surprised her by a birthday party. And they had had tea out
in the old rose-garden, and had pelted one another with the great
velvety king roses, and she had torn her hand on a thorn. Ah, how
cruelly it hurt! It was a very present pain that made her cry out
now, not the memory of that old one.
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