The Eternal Feminine. Wells Carolyn
the first thing!”
“Oh, no, Miss Young, you haven’t! There, there, don’t look so distressed! I’ll make it all right for you.”
“You’ll make it all right! How dare you, sir? Do you dream for a moment I’d take your money to replace my own losses?”
“Now, wait, you don’t understand. This check is worthless until it’s signed. Now, we’ll tear it out, so, and begin again. Make smaller letters and figures, can’t you?”
“Oh, how cute that check comes out! You just tear it by the little perforated dots, don’t you? Let me tear one out!”
“Write it first; you’ll probably spoil it, and have to tear it out.”
“How unkind you are! And I’m doing my very best. Don’t find fault with me, – please, don’t!”
“Well, don’t wrinkle up your nose like that, – it looks like a crumpled rose petal! And don’t write your name there! That’s the place for the amount!”
“Oh, what a fuss! What does it matter, so long as all the spaces are filled? My goodness, the check’s all done, isn’t it? And it’s quite entirely all right, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s irreproachable. How will you have the money?”
“If I take the money, do I have to give you this check?”
“Certainly.”
“Then I won’t take any money, thank you. I want to take this check home and show it to Daddy. He’ll be so pleased and proud! I know he’ll keep it as a souvenir, and then he’ll give me some of his money for the hat!”
THE DRESSMAKER IN THE HOUSE
SCENE. – A sewing-room, with the usual piles of unfinished or unmended clothing heaped on tables and chairs. Mrs. Lester, a pretty, fussy little woman, is trying on her own gowns and then tossing them aside, one after another.
Enter Miss Cotton, a visiting dressmaker.
Mrs. Lester: Oh, Miss Cotton, I’m so glad you’ve come! I’m nearly frantic. Excuse the looks of this sewing-room. I don’t see why a sewing-room never can keep itself cleared up! I suppose it’s because they never have any closets in them; or if they do, you have to hang your best dresses there – there’s no other place. And so this room gets simply jammed with white work and mending and hats, and I don’t know what all! My husband says it’s like the Roman Forum done in dry-goods. But he’s a regular Miss Nancy about neatness and order. Now, to-day, Miss Cotton, we’re going to do sleeves. See? Sleeves! And nothing else. I’m simply driven crazy by them.
Oh, don’t look as if you didn’t know what I meant! You know, all my gowns have elbow sleeves, and I must either have long ones put in or throw the whole dress away.
Yes, I know I said I’d wear the short sleeves, if other people did insist on having long ones. I know I said I’d be independent, and at least wear out the ones I have. But I’m conquered! I admit it! It isn’t any fun to go to a luncheon and be the only woman at the table with elbow sleeves!
Yesterday I went to Mrs. Ritchie’s Bridge, and my partner, that big Mrs. Van Winkle, with chains of scarabs all over her chest till she looked like the British Museum, kept pulling her long sleeves down farther over her knuckles just to annoy me.
Yes, I know it, my forearm is white and round, but I declare it makes me feel positively indecent to go with it bared nowadays. If those suffrage people would only get for women the right to bare arms, they’d do something worth while.
No, indeed, I can’t afford to get new gowns. These are too good to throw away.
Well, they may not be the latest style, but I don’t want those bolster-slip arrangements for mine.
Mrs. Van Bumpus, now – you know her, don’t you? Well, it would take two kimonos to go round her, I’m sure; and I saw her the other day in one of those clinging satin rigs. My! she looked exactly like a gypsy-wagon, the kind that has canvas stretched over its ribs.
No, it’s sleeves, sleeves, I’m after to-day – and that’s why I sent for you.
I’m going to superintend them, you understand, but I want you to help, and to do the plain sewing.
Well, to begin on this mauve crépon. I want to wear it this afternoon, and I think we can easily get it done, between us.
I’ve bought a paper pattern – I bought three – for I mean to spare no expense in getting my sleeves right.
So I bought three different makes, and think this one is best. It was a sort of bargain, too, for they sold the sleeve pattern and a pattern for little boys’ pajamas, all for ten cents. I don’t know what to do with the pajamas pattern – so that does seem a waste. I’ve no little boy, and I shouldn’t make pajamas for him if I had. I think the one-piece nighties far more sensible. If you know of any one who has a little boy, I’ll sell that pattern for half price. Still, ten cents wasn’t much to pay for this sleeve pattern. You see, it’s really three sleeve patterns. One plain, with dart; one plain, without dart; and one tucked. I’ll use them all, in different waists, but for this mauve crépon, I think, we’ll try the tucked one. It would be sweet in net or chiffon. Yes, I bought both materials, for I didn’t know which you’d think prettier; I trust a great deal to your judgment and experience, though I always rely on my own taste.
Now, here’s the tucked sleeve. Merciful powers! Look at the length of it! Oh, it’s to be tucked all the way up, you see, and that brings it the right length. Wouldn’t it be easier to cut the sleeve from net already tucked? No, that’s so – I couldn’t match the shade in tucked stuff of any sort. I tried in seven shops. Well, let’s see. These rows of perforations match these rows. No – that isn’t right. That would make the tucks wider than the spaces. Why, I never saw such millions of perforations in one piece of paper before! Look here, this isn’t a sleeve pattern at all! It’s a Pianola roll! I’m going to put through and see if it isn’t that old thing in F, or something classic. Cut out the tucked sleeve, Miss Cotton. Oh, wait, I didn’t mean that literally! My husband reproves me so often for using slang. I mean, I won’t have my arms done up in Bach’s fugues; I should feel like a hand-organ.
Let’s try this plain sleeve with dart. H’m – “lay the line of large perforations lengthwise of the material.” And here are large perforations sprinkled all over the thing! Oh, no, that isn’t the way! Yes, I’m quite willing you should show me, if you know yourself – but I see these directions confuse you as much as they do me; and if there’s to be a mistake made in cutting this expensive material, I’d rather make it myself. This says, “developed in piqué it will produce satisfactory results.” Well, I can’t wear piqué sleeves in a crépon gown! Can I? There – I’ve cut it! Now, “close seam, gather between double crosses, make no seam where there are three crosses, bring together corresponding lines of perforations – and finish free edges!” Well! I rather guess those free edges will finish me! However, baste it up, Miss Cotton, and I’ll try it on. It’s easy to make sleeves, after all, isn’t it?
Why! I can’t begin to get my arm into that pipe-stem! What? I should have allowed seams? Why didn’t you tell me? Oh, no, I didn’t scorn your advice! Why, that’s what I have you here for! Well, those sleeves are ruined. A living skeleton couldn’t get into those. It’s most confusing, the way some patterns allow seams and some don’t. I was going to get one with “all seams allowed,” but it had another part to it – a “brassière.” I don’t know what that is, but probably some sort of a brass pot or other bric-à-brac junk, and I don’t want any more of that. The den is full now. Well, I’m tired of making sleeves. What do you think, Miss Cotton, of just adding lace lower halfs? I bought a lovely pair, in case the sleeves didn’t turn out well. Now, I’ll put on the bodice, and you pin them on, and we’ll see how they look.
Oh, they’re not nearly long enough! They ought to come well below my wrists. And such beautiful lace – it’s a shame not to use them. Yes, perhaps a band of lace at the elbow might help. No, that looks awfully patchy – take it away. A ruching at the wrist? No, nobody wears that.