will bring it round when it's dry."

The old woman held out both her hands, in a gesture of mute
congratulation and fatigue.

"Now rest," said Fanny. "Now sleep--and in the morning I will come and
tell you all about it," and ran out into the snow.

* * * * *

The top hook of the bodice would not meet. With her heart in her mouth,
with despair, she pulled. Then sat down on the bed and stared blankly
before her.

"Then if _that_ won't meet, all, all the dress is wasted. I can't go.
No, right in the front! There is nothing to be done, nothing to be
done!" She sat alone in the room, the five candles she had lighted
guttering and spilling wax. She was in the half-fastened painted bodice
and a fine net petticoat she had bought at Nancy. Even the green silk
bedroom slippers were on, tied round her ankles with ribbons, the only
slippers she had found in Metz, and she had searched for them for hours.

The room was icy cold, and the hand of the clock chasing towards the
hour for the dance. Should she go in uniform? Not for the world.

She would not meet him, and it seemed as though there could be no
to-morrow, and she would never meet him again in this world. This
meeting had had a peculiar significance--the flouncy, painted dress, the
plans she had made to meet him for once as a woman. Shivering, and in
absurd anguish she sat still on the bed.