Helens dancing before he eyes in a kaleidoscopic assortment of dresses.

"You're right. We'll get--oh, what shall we--what shall we get that'll be
good enough for you?" she cried in a flutter. "Something simple of course,
you're so young; but--I'll tell you: We'll go right to Mrs. Edgar!"

Perhaps my own face burned, too.

"Who's she? Some one on the Avenue?"

"No; no one knows her, but--she's a marvel! It'd mean the world and all to
her to please some one sure to be noticed, like you. She's a widow; has
two children."

So to Mrs. Edgar we went. Her eyes devoured me. She is a mite of a woman,
young, white-faced, vivacious.

"For a tea?" she asked. "A--a large one?"

She spoke with forced calmness, but her hands had the artist's flutter,
the enthusiast's eagerness to be doing.

"I'll get samples," she went on; "there's not a minute to be lost; not--
one--moment! I'll work all night rather than fail her. You will not
wish"--she dismissed us abruptly--"to go with me to the shops?"

"No; Miss Winship attracts too much attention."

Alas, it's true! It has become an ordeal for me to venture into a shop.
But what a blessed thing if my beauty should bring success and ease to