She had never looked more frail--a rose-leaf pink in her cheek--nor more at ease.

For she was at least as good to consult about a skirt as an idea.
'Marie!'-- she said, giving her own maid a little peremptory push--'just run and fetch Benson--there's an angel.

We must have all the brains possible.
If we don't get the bodice right, it won't suit Miss Foster a bit.' Marie went in all haste.

Meanwhile in front of a large glass stood a rather red and troubled Lucy arrayed in a Paris gown belonging to Mrs.Burgoyne.
Eleanor had played her with much tact, and now had her in her power.
'It is the crisis, my dear,' Miss Manisty had said in Eleanor's ear, as they rose from breakfast, with a twinkle of her small eyes.

'The question is; can we, or can we not, turn her into a beauty?
_You_ can!' Eleanor at any rate was doing her best.