'Won't it cost a packet?' was Mrs b.u.t.terfield's reaction to the dark side of things.

'Ten bob for 'arf a dozen,' Mrs Harris reported. 'I saw an ad in the paper. I'll give you one of the extra ones if you like.'

'That's good of you, dearie,' said Mrs b.u.t.terfield and meant it.

'Ow Lor'.' The exclamation was torn from Mrs Harris as she was suddenly riven by a new thought. 'Ow Lor',' she repeated, 'if I'm going to 'ave me photograph tyken, I'll 'ave to 'ave a new 'at.'

Two of Mrs b.u.t.terfield's chins quivered at the impact of this revelation. 'Of course you will, dearie, and that will will cost a packet.' cost a packet.'

Mrs Harris accepted the fact philosophically and even with some pleasure. It had been years since she had invested in a new hat. 'It can't be 'elped. Just as well I've got some of the stuff.'

The pair selected the following Sat.u.r.day afternoon, invading the King's Road to accomplish both errands beginning, of course, with the choice of the hat. There was no doubt, but that Mrs Harris fell in love with it immediately she saw it in the window, but at first turned resolutely away for it was priced at a guinea, while all about it were others on sale, specials at ten and six, and even some at seven and six.

But Mrs Harris would not have been a true London char had she not favoured the one at one guinea, for it had been thought of, designed, and made for members of her profession. The hat was a kind of flat sailor affair of green straw, but what made it distinguished was the pink rose on a short but flexible stem that was affixed to the front. It was, of course, her fondness for flowers and the rose that got Mrs Harris. They went into the shop and Mrs Harris dutifully tried on shapes and materials considered to be within her price range, but her thoughts and her eyes kept roving to the window where the hat was displayed. Finally she could contain herself no longer and asked for it.

Mrs b.u.t.terfield examined the price tag with horror. 'Coo,' she said, 'a guinea! It is a waste of money, you that's been syving for so long.'

Mrs Harris set it upon her head and was lost. 'I don't care,' she said fiercely, 'I can go a week later.'

If a camera was to fix her features and person for all time, to be carried in her pa.s.sport, to be shown to her friends, to be preserved in a little frame on Mrs b.u.t.terfield's dressing table, that was how she wanted it, with that hat and no other. 'I'll 'ave it,' she said to the sales girl and produced the twenty-one shillings. She left the shop wearing it contentedly. After all, what was one guinea to someone who was about to invest four hundred and fifty pounds in a dress.

The pa.s.sport photographer was not busy when they arrived and soon had Mrs Harris posed before the cold eye of his camera while hump-backed he inspected her from beneath the concealment of his black cloth. He then turned on a hot battery of floodlights which illuminated Mrs Harris's every fold, line, and wrinkle etched into her shrewd and merry little face by the years of toil.

'And now, madam,' he said, 'if you would kindly remove that hat-'

'Not b--likely,' said Mrs Harris succinctly, 'what the 'ell do you think I've bought this 'at for if not to wear it in me photograph.'

The photographer said: 'Sorry, madam, against regulations. The Pa.s.sport Office won't accept any photographs with hats on. I can make some specials at two guineas a dozen for you later, with the hat on, if you like.'

Mrs Harris told the photographer a naughty thing to do with his two-guinea specials, but Mrs b.u.t.terfield consoled her. 'Never mind, dearie,' she said, 'you'll have it to wear when you go to Paris. You'll be right in with the fashion.'

It was on a hazy May morning, four months later, or to be exact two years, seven months, three weeks, and one day following her resolve to own a Dior dress, that Mrs Harris, firm and fully equipped beneath the green hat with the pink rose, was seen off on the bus to the Air Station by a tremulous and nervous Mrs b.u.t.terfield. Besides the long and arduously h.o.a.rded fortune, the price of the dress, she was equipped with pa.s.sport, return ticket to Paris, and sufficient funds to get there and back.

The intended schedule of her day included the selection and purchase of her dress, lunch in Paris, a bit of sightseeing, and return by the evening plane.

The clients had all been warned of the unusual event of Mrs Harris's taking a day off, with Mrs b.u.t.terfield subst.i.tuting, and had reacted in accordance with their characters and natures. Major Wallace was, of course, dubious, since he could not so much as find a clean towel or a pair of socks without the a.s.sistance of Mrs Harris, but it was the actress, Miss Pamela Penrose, who kicked up the ugliest fuss, storming at the little char. 'But that's horrid of you. You can't. I won't hear of it. I pay you, don't I! I've a most important producer coming for drinks here tomorrow. You charwomen are all alike. Never think of anybody but yourselves. I do think, after all I've done for you, you might show me a little consideration.'

For a moment, in extenuation, Mrs Harris was tempted to reveal where she was off to and why - and resisted. The love affair between herself and the Dior dress was private. Instead she said soothingly: 'Now, now, ducks, no need for you to get shirty. Me friend, Mrs b.u.t.terfield, will look in on you on her way home tomorrow and give the place a good tidying up. Your producer friend won't know the difference. Well, dearie, 'ere's 'oping 'e gives you a good job,' she concluded cheerily and left Miss Penrose glowering and sulking.

ALL thoughts of the actress, and for that matter all of her meandering back into the past, were driven out of Mrs Harris's head when with a jerk and a squeal of brakes the cab came to a halt at what must be her destination. thoughts of the actress, and for that matter all of her meandering back into the past, were driven out of Mrs Harris's head when with a jerk and a squeal of brakes the cab came to a halt at what must be her destination.

The great grey building that is the House of Christian Dior occupies an entire corner of the s.p.a.cious Avenue Montaigne leading off the Rond-Point of the Champs-elysees. It has two entrances, one off the Avenue proper which leads through the Boutique where knick-knacks and accessories are sold at prices ranging from five to a hundred pounds, and another more demure and exclusive one.

The cab driver chose to deposit Mrs Harris at the latter, reserved for the genuinely rich clientele, figuring his pa.s.senger to be at the very least an English countess or milady. He charged her no more than the amount registered on the clock and forbore to tip himself more than fifty francs, mindful of the warning of the Airways man. Then crying to her gaily the only English he knew, which was - ' 'Ow do you do,' he drove off leaving her standing on the sidewalk before the place that had occupied her yearnings and dreams and ambitions for the past three years.

And a strange misgiving stirred in the thin breast beneath the brown twill coat. It was no store at all, like Selfridges in Oxford Street, or Marks and Spencer's where she did her shopping, not a proper store at all, with windows for display and wax figures with pearly smiles and pink cheeks, arms outstretched in elegant att.i.tudes to show off the clothes that were for sale. There was nothing, nothing at all, but some windows shaded by ruffled grey curtains, and a door with an iron grille behind the gla.s.s. True, in the keystone above the arch of the entrance were chiselled the words CHRISTIAN DIOR CHRISTIAN DIOR, but no other identification.

When you have desired something as deeply as Mrs Harris had longed for her Paris dress, and for such a time, and when at last that deep-rooted feminine yearning is about to taste the sweetness of fulfilment, every moment attending its achievement becomes acute and indelibly memorable.

Standing alone now in a foreign city, a.s.sailed by the foreign roar of foreign traffic and the foreign bustle of foreign pa.s.sers-by, outside the great, grey mansion that was like a private house and not a shop at all, Mrs Harris suddenly felt lonely, frightened, and forlorn, and in spite of the great roll of silver-green American dollars in her handbag she wished for a moment that she had not come, or that she had asked the young man from the Airlines to accompany her, or that the taxi driver had not driven away leaving her standing there.

And then, as luck would have it, a car from the British Emba.s.sy drove by and the sight of the tiny Union Jack fluttering from the mudguard stiffened her spine and brought determination to her mouth and eyes. She reminded herself who and what she was, drew in a deep breath of the balmy Paris air laced with petrol fumes, and resolutely pushed open the door and entered.

She was almost driven back by the powerful smell of elegance that a.s.sailed her once she was inside. It was the same that she smelled when Lady Dant opened the doors to her wardrobe, the same that clung to the fur coat and clothes of the Countess Wyszcinska, for whom she cleaned from four to six in the afternoons, the one she sometimes sniffed in the streets when, as she pa.s.sed, someone opened the door of a luxurious motor car. It was compounded of perfume and fur and satins, silks and leather, jewellery and face powder. It seemed to arise from the thick grey carpets and hangings, and fill the air of the grand staircase before her.

It was the odour of the rich, and it made her tremble once more and wonder what she, Ada 'Arris, was doing there instead of washing up the luncheon dishes for Mrs Fford Foulks at home, or furthering the career of a real theatrical star like Pamela Penrose by seeing that her flat was neat and tidy when her producer friends came to call.

She hesitated, her feet seemingly sinking into the pile of the carpet up to her ankles. Then her fingers crept into her handbag and tested the smooth feel of the roll of American bills. 'That's why you're 'ere, Ada 'Arris. That says you're ruddy well as rich as any of 'em. Get on with it then, my girl.'

She mounted the imposing and deserted staircase, it then being half-past eleven in the morning. On the first half-landing there was but a single silver slipper in a gla.s.s showcase let into the wall, on the second turn there was a similar showcase housing an outsize bottle of Dior perfume. But otherwise there were no goods of any kind on display, nor were there crowds of people rushing up and down the stairs as in Marks and Spencer's or Selfridges. Nowhere was there any sign of anything that so much as resembled the shops to which she was accustomed.

On the contrary, the elegance and atmosphere of the deserted staircase gave her the feeling of a private house, and one on a most grand scale at that. Was she really in the right place? Her courage threatened to ooze again, but she told herself that sooner or later she must come upon some human being who would be able to direct her to the dresses, or at least put her right if she were in the wrong building. She pressed on and indeed on the first floor landing came upon a dark handsome woman in her early forties who was writing at a desk. She wore a simple black dress relieved by three rows of pearls at the neck, her coiffure was neat and glossy; her features were refined, her skin exquisite, but closer inspection would have revealed that she looked tired and care-worn and that there were dark hollows beneath her eyes.

Behind her, Mrs Harris noted a fair-sized room opening into a second one, grey-carpeted like the stairs, with fine silk hangings at the windows, and furnished only with several rows of grey and golden chairs around the perimeter. A few floor-to-ceiling pier mirrors completed the decor, but of anything to sell or even so much as to look at, there was not a sign.

Mme Colbert, the manageress, had had a bad morning. A usually kind and gracious lady, she had let herself quarrel with M. Fauvel, the young and handsome head of the accounts department, of whom otherwise she was rather fond, and had sent him upstairs again to his domain with his ears reddening.

It was merely a matter of his inquiring about a client whose bills seemed to run too long without payment. On any other day Mme Colbert might have favoured the accountant with a penetrating and not unhumorous summing-up of the client's characteristics, idiosyncrasies, and trustworthiness, since sooner or later they all bared themselves to her. Instead of which she railed angrily at him that it was her business to sell dresses and his to collect the money and she had not the time to inspect the bank accounts of clients. That was his affair.

Besides giving short answers all morning, she had ticked off several of the sales girls and even permitted herself to scold Natasha, the star model of the House, for being late for a fitting, when, as she knew well, the Metro and the buses were engaging in a go-slow strike. What made it worse was that the exquisite Natasha had responded to the sharp words in a most un-prima donna-like manner, she did not argue or snap back, only two large tears formed at her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

And then besides, Mme Colbert was not at all sure that she had not muddled the invitations and seating for the afternoon's review of the collection. As head of the department she was an important and all-powerful person on the first floor. It was she who issued or denied invitations to see the collection, sorted out spies and curiosity seekers, and barred the undesirables. She was in charge of seating arrangements as complicated as those facing any head waiter of a fashionable restaurant, as clients must be placed according to importance, rank, t.i.tle, and bankroll. She was the directrice directrice of a fashion parade, having something to say as to the order in which the creations appeared, and likewise she was the commander-in-chief of a battalion of black-garbed sales women, deploying them on the staircase and taking great care to match them psychologically to their clients - a gay and gossipy sales girl for a gay and gossipy woman, a silent and respectful sales person for a mature and important customer, an English-speaking girl with a persuasive line for an American, a good bully with a commanding aspect for a German, etc. of a fashion parade, having something to say as to the order in which the creations appeared, and likewise she was the commander-in-chief of a battalion of black-garbed sales women, deploying them on the staircase and taking great care to match them psychologically to their clients - a gay and gossipy sales girl for a gay and gossipy woman, a silent and respectful sales person for a mature and important customer, an English-speaking girl with a persuasive line for an American, a good bully with a commanding aspect for a German, etc.

When such a powerful person was out of sorts or illhumoured, repercussions would ring far and wide. The crise which Mme Colbert was suffering had to do with her husband Jules, and the love, respect, and affection for him which had grown over the twenty years they had been together. Dear, good, decent, clever Jules, who had more knowledge in one fingertip than all the rest of them in the Foreign Office, with their rosettes and political connexions. But one thing Jules lacked, or rather two - he had not the ability to push himself and - he had no political friends or connexions.

Beginning as a poor boy, he had achieved his position by brilliance and application. Yet, whenever there was a better or higher position opening he was rejected in favour of someone of lesser intellect but greater connexions who then from his new position of eminence used Jules's experience to handle his job. As his wife, and an intelligent woman au courant au courant with affairs in France, Mme Colbert knew that many a difficult problem had been solved by her husband's brains and intuition. Yet, time and time again he had been pa.s.sed over for promotion, time and time again his eager optimism and enthusiasm had been shattered. In the past year for the first time Mme Colbert had become aware of a growing hopelessness and misanthropy in her husband. Now a man of fifty, he felt he could look forward to nothing but the existence of a Foreign Office hack. He had all but given up, and it broke her heart to see the changes in the man to whom she had given her devotion. with affairs in France, Mme Colbert knew that many a difficult problem had been solved by her husband's brains and intuition. Yet, time and time again he had been pa.s.sed over for promotion, time and time again his eager optimism and enthusiasm had been shattered. In the past year for the first time Mme Colbert had become aware of a growing hopelessness and misanthropy in her husband. Now a man of fifty, he felt he could look forward to nothing but the existence of a Foreign Office hack. He had all but given up, and it broke her heart to see the changes in the man to whom she had given her devotion.

Recently, there had been a sudden death at the Quai d' Orsay; the chief of an important department had succ.u.mbed to heart failure. Speculation was rife as to who would replace him. Jules Colbert was one of those in line for the job and yet- It saddened Mme Colbert almost to the point of desperation to see how her husband's buoyancy from his younger days struggled to break through the weight of pessimism that experience had laid upon his shoulders. He dared to hope again, even against all of the political corruption which would shatter his hopes and this time leave him an old and broken man.

This then was the burden that Mme Colbert carried about with her. She had helped her husband by working and taking financial strain off him and so had built herself into her position in the great dressmaking house. But she realised now that this was not enough and that in another way she had failed. The wife of a diplomat or a politician must herself be a diplomat or politician, conduct a salon salon to which the great and the might-be great would be invited; she would wheedle, flatter, intrigue, even if need be, give herself to advance her husband's interests. Here was the ideal situation for such a.s.sistance; a plum was ready to fall to the right man and there was no way she could influence it into the lap of Jules. There was no one in those circles who cared a fig for her or her husband. to which the great and the might-be great would be invited; she would wheedle, flatter, intrigue, even if need be, give herself to advance her husband's interests. Here was the ideal situation for such a.s.sistance; a plum was ready to fall to the right man and there was no way she could influence it into the lap of Jules. There was no one in those circles who cared a fig for her or her husband.

This knowledge drove Mme Colbert almost frantic with unhappiness, for she loved her husband and could not bear to see him destroyed, but neither could she do anything to prevent it and break the ugly pattern of his being shunted aside in favour of someone who had the right connexions of money, family, or political power. She lay awake at nights racking her brains for some means to help him. By day she could only become more and more convinced of the futility of her efforts, and thus her bitterness was carried on into the life of her daily work and began to affect those about her. She was not unaware of the change in herself; she seemed to be going about in some kind of nightmare from which she could not awake.

Seated now at her desk on the first floor landing and trying to concentrate on the placing of the guests for the afternoon show, Mme Colbert looked up to see an apparition ascending the stairs which caused a shudder to pa.s.s through her frame and led her to brush her hand across her brow and eyes as though to clear away an hallucination, if it was one. But it was not. She was real enough.

One of Mme Colbert's a.s.sets was her unvarying judgement in estimating the quality of would-be customers or clients, divining the genuine article from the time-wasters, penetrating the exterior of eccentrics to the bankrolls within. But this woman ascending the stairs in the worn, shabby coat, gloves of the wrong colour, shoes that advertised only too plainly her origin, the dreadful glazed imitation leather handbag, and the wholly preposterous hat with its jiggling rose, defied her.

Swiftly Mme Colbert's mind raced through all the categories of clients she had ever seen and known. If the creature had been what she looked like, a cleaning woman (and here you see how marvellous Mme Colbert's instincts were), she would have been entering by the back way. But, of course, this was absurd since all of the cleaning was done there at night, after hours. It was impossible that this could be a client of or for the House of Dior.

And yet she waited for the woman to speak, for she realised that she was so upset by her own personal problems that her judgement might be warped. She had not long to wait.

'Ah, there you are, dearie,' the woman said, 'could you tell me which way to the dresses?'

Madame Colbert no longer had any doubts as to her judgement. Such a voice and such an accent had not been heard inside the walls of the House of Dior since its inception.

'The dresses?' inquired Mme Colbert in chilled and flawless English, 'what dresses?'

'Oh come now, duckie,' admonished Mrs Harris, 'aren't you a bit on the slow side this morning? Where is it they 'angs up the dresses for sale?'

For one moment Mme Colbert thought that this weird person might have strayed from looking for the little shop below. 'If you mean the Boutique- '

Mrs Harris c.o.c.ked an ear. 'Bou - what? I didn't ask for any booties. It's them dresses I want, the expensive ones. Pull yourself together, dearie, I've come all the way from London to buy meself one of your dresses and I 'aven't any time to waste.'

All was as clear as day to Mme Colbert now. Every so often, an error came marching up the grand staircase, though never before one quite so obviously and ghastly as this one, and had to be dealt with firmly. Her own troubles and frustrations rendered the manageress colder and more unsympathetic than usual in such circ.u.mstances. 'I am afraid you have come to the wrong place. We do not display dresses here. The collection is only shown privately in the afternoons. Perhaps if you go to the Galeries Lafayette- '

Mrs Harris was completely bewildered. 'Wot Galleries,' she asked, 'I don't want no galleries. Is this Dior or ain't it?' Then, before the woman could reply she remembered something. She used to encounter the word 'collections' in the fashion magazines, but thought they had something to do with charity, such as the collection in the church on Sunday. Now her native shrewdness cut through the mystery. 'Look 'ere,' she said, 'maybe it's this 'ere collection I want to see, what about it?'

Impatience seized Mme Colbert who was anxious to return to the miseries of her own thoughts. 'I am sorry,' she said coldly, 'the salon is filled for this afternoon and the rest of the week.' To get rid of her finally she repeated the usual formula: 'If you will leave the name of your hotel, perhaps next week some time we can send you an invitation.'

Righteous anger inflamed the bosom of Mrs Harris. She moved a step nearer to Mme Colbert and the pink rose attached to the front of the hat bobbed vigorously as she cried: 'Coo, that's a good one. You'll send me a invitytion to spend me money hard-earned dusting and mopping and ruinin' me 'ands in dirty dish water, next week, per perhaps - me that's got to be back in London tonight. 'Ow do you like that?'

The rose bobbed menacingly a foot from Mme Colbert's face. 'See 'ere, Miss Snooty-at-the-Desk, if yer don't think I've got the money to pay for what I want - 'ERE!' And with this Mrs Harris opened the imitation leather bag and up-ended it The rubber band about her roll chose that moment to burst, dramatically showering a green cascade of American five-, ten-, and twenty-dollar notes. 'There!' at which point Mrs Harris raised her indignant voice to roof level, 'what's the matter with that? Ain't my money as good as anybody else's?'

Caught by surprise Mme Colbert stared at the astonishing and, truth to tell, beautiful sight, murmuring to herself 'Mon dieu! Better than most people's.' Her mind had turned suddenly to her recent quarrel with young Andre Fauvel who had complained about the fall of the French franc and clients not paying their bills, and she thought ironically that here was a genuine cash customer and how would he like that. There was no gainsaying that the mound of dollars on the desk was real money.

But Mme Colbert was now confused as well as taken aback by the appearance and manner of this weird customer. How had she, who professed to scrub floors and wash dishes for her living, come by so much money and in dollars at that? And what on earth did she want with a Dior dress? The whole business smacked of irregularity leading to trouble. Nowhere did it add up or make sense, and Mme Colbert felt she had enough trouble as it was without becoming involved with this impossible British visitor who had more money on her person than she ought.

Adamantly, in spite of the sea of green dollars covering her desk, Mme Colbert repeated: 'I am sorry, the salon is full this afternoon.'

Mrs Harris's lip began to tremble and her little eyes screwed up as the implications of the disaster became clear. Here, in this apparently empty, hostile building, before cold hostile eyes, the unimaginable seemed about to happen. They didn't seem to want her, they didn't even appear to want her money. They were going to send her away and back to London without her Dior dress.

'Lumme!' she cried, 'ain't you Frenchies got any 'eart? You there, so smooth and cool! Didn't you ever want anything so bad you could cry every time you thought about it? Ain't you never stayed awake at nights wanting some-fink and shivering, because maybe you couldn't never 'ave it?'

Her words struck like a knife to the heart of Mme Colbert who night after night had been doing just that, lying awake and shivering from the ache to be able to do something for her man. And the pain of the thrust forced a little cry from the manageress. 'How did you know? How ever could you guess?'

Her own dark unhappy eyes suddenly became caught up in the small vivid blue ones of Mrs Harris which were revealing the first glint of tears. Woman looked into woman, and what Mme Colbert saw filled her first with horror and then a sudden rush of compa.s.sion and understanding.

The horror was directed at herself, at her own coldness and lack of sympathy. In one moment it seemed this odd little woman facing her had held a mirror up and let her see herself as she had become through self-indulgence and yielding to her personal difficulties. She thought with shame how she had behaved towards M. Fauvel, and with even more contrition her f.e.c.kless scolding of the sales girls and even Natasha, the model, who was one of her pets.

But above all she was appalled at the realisation that she had let herself be so encrusted, so hardened by the thoughts with which she lived daily that she had become both blind and deaf to human needs and cries emanating from the human heart. Wherever she came from, whatever her walk in life, the person opposite her was a woman, with all of a woman's desires, and as the scales fell thus from her own eyes, she whispered: 'My dear, you've set your heart on a Dior dress.'

Mrs Harris would not have been a veteran member in good-standing of her profession had she forborne to reply: 'Well, now, 'ow did you know?'

Mme Colbert ignored the sarcasm. She was looking now at the pile of money and shaking her head in amazement. 'But however did you- ?'

'Scrimped and syved,' said Mrs Harris. 'It's took me three years. But if you wants somefink bad enough, there's always ways. Mind you, you've got to 'ave a bit o' luck as well. Now tyke me, after I won a hundred pounds on a football pool I said to meself, "That's a sign, Ada 'Arris," so I started syving and 'ere I am.'

Mme Colbert had a flash of intuition as to what 'Syving' meant to such a person and a wave of admiration for the courage and gallantry of the woman pa.s.sed through her. Perhaps if she herself had shown more of this kind of courage and tenacity, instead of taking out her frustration on innocent and helpless sales girls, she might have been able to accomplish something for her husband. She pa.s.sed her hand over her brow again and came to a quick decision. 'What is your name, my dear?' When Mrs Harris told her she filled it in quickly on an engraved card that said that Monsieur Christian Dior, no less, would be honoured by her presence at the showing of his collection that afternoon. 'Come back at three,' she said and handed it to Mrs Harris. 'There really is no room, but I will make a place for you on the stairs from where you will be able to see the collection.'

All rancour and sarcasm vanished from the voice of Mrs Harris as she gazed in ecstasy at her admission to Paradise. 'Now, that's kind of you, love,' she said. 'It looks like me luck is 'olding out.'

A curious feeling of peace pervaded Mme Colbert and a strange smile illuminated her countenance as she said: 'Who can say, perhaps you will be lucky for me too.'

AT five minutes to three that afternoon three people whose lives were to become strangely entangled, found themselves within a whisper of one another by the grand staircase in the House of Dior, now crowded with visitors, clients, sales girls, staff, and members of the press, all milling about. five minutes to three that afternoon three people whose lives were to become strangely entangled, found themselves within a whisper of one another by the grand staircase in the House of Dior, now crowded with visitors, clients, sales girls, staff, and members of the press, all milling about.

The first of these was M. Andre Fauvel, the young chief accountant. He was well set up and handsome in a blond way, in spite of a scar upon his cheek honourably acquired, and the source of a military medal won during his army service in Algeria.

It was sometimes necessary for him to descend from the chilling regions of his account books on the fourth floor to the warmth of the atmosphere of perfumes, silks, and satins, and the females they encased, on the first floor. He welcomed these occasions and even sought excuses for them in the expedition of catching a glimpse of his G.o.ddess, the star model, with whom he was desperately and, of course, quite hopelessly in love.

For Mlle Natasha, as she was known to press and public in the fashion world, was the toast of Paris, a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty of extraordinary attraction and one who surely had a brilliant career before her either in films or a rich and t.i.tled marriage. Every important bachelor in Paris, not to mention a considerable quota of married men, were paying her court.

M. Fauvel came from a good middle cla.s.s family; his was a good position with a good wage, and he had a little money besides, but his world was as far removed from the brilliant star of Natasha as was the planet earth from the great Sirius.

He was fortunate, for that moment he did catch a sight of her in the doorway of the dressing room, already encased in the first number she was to model, a frock of flame-coloured wool, and on her glossy head perched a flame-coloured hat. A diamond snowflake sparkled at her throat, and a sable stole was draped carelessly over one arm. M. Fauvel thought that his heart would stop and never beat again, so beautiful was she and so unattainable.

Glancing out of her sweet, grave eyes set wide apart in narrowing lids, Mlle Natasha saw M. Fauvel and yet saw him not, as, showing a sliver of pink tongue, she stifled a yawn. For truth to tell, she was prodigiously bored. None but a few at Dior's knew the real ident.i.ty much less the real personality of the long-limbed, high-waisted, raven-haired Niobe who attracted the rich and famous to her side like flies.

Her real name then was Suzanne Pet.i.tpierre. Her origin was a simple bourgeois family in Lyons and she was desperately weary of the life her profession forced her to lead, the endless rounds of c.o.c.ktail parties, dinners, theatres, and cabarets, as companion to film men, motor manufacturers, steel men, t.i.tled men, all of whom wished to be seen with the most glamorous and photographed model in the city. Mlle Pet.i.tpierre wanted nothing of any of them. She had no ambition for a career in films, or on the stage, or to take her place as the chatelaine of some n.o.ble chateau. What she desired more than anything else was somehow to be able to rejoin that middle cla.s.s from which she had temporarily escaped, marry someone for love, some good, simple man, who was not too handsome or clever, settle down in a comfortable bourgeois home, and produce a great many little bourgeois offspring. Such men existed, she knew, men who were not consistently vain, boastful, or super- intellectual to the point where she could not keep up with them. But they were somehow now all outside of her orbit. Even at that very moment when she was beneath the gaze of many admiring eyes she felt lost and unhappy. She remembered vaguely having seen the young man who was regarding her so intently, somewhere before, but could not place him.

Finally, Mrs Harris, of Number 5 Willis Gardens, Battersea, London, came bustling up the staircase already crowded with rec.u.mbent figures, to be received by Mme Colbert. And then and there an astonishing thing took place.

For to the regulars and cognoscenti cognoscenti the staircase at Christian Dior's is Siberia, as humiliating a spot as when the head waiter of a fashionable restaurant seats you among the yahoos by the swinging doors leading to the kitchen. It was reserved strictly for b.o.o.bs, nosies, unimportant people, and the minor press. the staircase at Christian Dior's is Siberia, as humiliating a spot as when the head waiter of a fashionable restaurant seats you among the yahoos by the swinging doors leading to the kitchen. It was reserved strictly for b.o.o.bs, nosies, unimportant people, and the minor press.

Mme Colbert regarded Mrs Harris standing there in all her cheap clothing, and she looked right through them and saw only the gallant woman and sister beneath. She reflected upon the simplicity and the courage that had led her thither in pursuit of a dream, the wholly feminine yearning for an out-of-reach bit of finery, the touching desire, once in her drab cheerless life, to possess the ultimate in a creation. And she felt that somehow Mrs Harris was quite the most important and worthwhile person in the gathering there of chattering females waiting to view the collection that day.

'No,' she said to Mrs Harris. 'Not on the staircase. I will not have it. Come. I have a seat for you inside.'

She threaded Mrs Harris through the throng, holding her by the hand, and took her into the main salon where all but two of the gold chairs in the double rows were occupied. Mme Colbert always kept one or two seats in reserve for the possible unexpected arrival of some V.I.P., or a favoured customer bringing a friend.

She towed Mrs Harris across the floor and seated her on a vacant chair in the front row. 'There,' said Mme Colbert 'You will be able to see everything from here. Have you your invitation? Here is a little pencil. When the models enter, the girl at the door will call out the name and number of the dress - in English. Write down the numbers of the ones you like best, and I will see you afterwards.'

Mrs Harris settled herself noisily and comfortably on the grey and gold chair. Her handbag she parked on the vacant seat at her left, the card and pencil she prepared for action. Then with a pleased and happy smile she began taking stock of her neighbours.

Although she had no means of identifying them, the main salon contained a cross-section of the haut monde haut monde of the world, including a scattering of the n.o.bility, ladies and honorables from England, marquises and countesses from France, baronesses from Germany, principessas from Italy, new-rich wives of French industrialists, veteran-rich wives of South American millionaires, buyers from New York, Los Angeles, and Dallas, stage actresses, film stars, playwrights, playboys, diplomats, etc. of the world, including a scattering of the n.o.bility, ladies and honorables from England, marquises and countesses from France, baronesses from Germany, principessas from Italy, new-rich wives of French industrialists, veteran-rich wives of South American millionaires, buyers from New York, Los Angeles, and Dallas, stage actresses, film stars, playwrights, playboys, diplomats, etc.

The seat to Mrs Harris's right was occupied by a fierce-looking old gentleman with snow-white hair and moustaches, tufted eyebrows that stood out like feathers from his face, and dark pouches under his eyes which were, however, of a penetrating blue and astonishingly alert and young looking. His hair was combed down over his brow in a sort of fringe; his boots were magnificently polished; his waistcoat was edged with white, and in the lapel of his dark jacket was fastened what seemed to Mrs Harris to be a small rosebud which both fascinated and startled her, since she had never seen a gentleman wearing any such thing before and so she was caught by him staring at it.

The thin, beak nose aimed itself at her; the keen blue eyes scrutinised her, but the voice that addressed her in perfect English was sere and tired. 'Is there something wrong, madam?'

It was not in the nature of Mrs Harris to be abashed or put out of countenance by anyone, but the thought that she might have been rude stirred her to contrition and she favoured the old gentleman with a self-deprecating smile.

'Fancy me gawking at you like you was a waxworks,' she apologised, 'where's me manners? I thought that was a rose in yer b.u.t.tonhole. Jolly good idea too.' Then in explanation she added - 'I'm very fond of flowers.'

'Are you,' said the gentleman. 'That is good.' Whatever hostility had been engendered by her stare was dispelled by the engaging innocence of her reply. He looked upon his neighbour with a new interest and saw now that she was a most extraordinary creature and one he could not immediately place. 'Perhaps,' he added, 'it would be better if this were indeed a rose instead of a - rosette.'

Mrs Harris did not understand this remark at all, but the pleasant manner in which it had been delivered showed her that she had been forgiven for her rudeness and the tiny shadow that had fallen across her mood was dispelled. 'Ain't it loverly 'ere?' she said by way of keeping the conversation going.

'Ah, you feel the atmosphere too.' Puzzled, the old gentleman was racking his brain, trying to catch or connect with something that was stirring there, something that seemed to be connected vaguely with his youth and his education which had been rounded out by two years at an English University. He was remembering a dark and dingy closet, dark-panelled, that had been his bedroom and study, cold and austere, opening off a dark hallway, and incongruously, as the picture formed in his mind, there was a pail standing in the hall at the head of the stairs.

Mrs Harris's alert little eyes now dared to engage those of the old gentleman. They penetrated the fierceness of his exterior, peering through the fringe of white hair and menacing eyebrows and the immaculate front of his clothing to a warmth that she felt within. She wondered what he was doing there, for his att.i.tude of hands folded over a gold-headed cane was of one who was unaccompanied. Probably looking for a dress for his granddaughter, she thought and, as always, with her kind, resorted to the direct question to satisfy her curiosity. She did, however, as a gesture of benevolence advance the prospective recipient a generation.