Miss Elizabeth Uniacke wore an aggressive air.
She stood in front of the mirror, her gray eyes critical, studying the effect of her newly made gown.
On her knees beside her a stout dressmaker waited, in mute suspense, her mouth full of pins. Her attitude was that of profound admiration, but in her heart she quailed, foreseeing the verdict.
"Too tight round the ankles," said Aunt Elizabeth.
Mrs. Crouch, between the pins, bleated her dismay. She assured "Meddam" it was the latest fashion: that to alter it by a "hair-breadth" was to "ruin the cut!"
"I can't help that——" Miss Uniacke scowled—"I've told you before—I won't be trussed like a fowl. I don't care what frights other women make of themselves! I've my own style, and I shall keep to it."
She placed her pretty hands to either side
