The dressmaker managed to simultaneously cluck over Betsy’s arm and reassure her that she’d be the most beautiful deb ever. Then she said the same thing to me, while sticking a pin into my hip and warning me not to do without my beauty sleep. I suppose I still wasn’t properly caught up after my night in the cells. Her assistants fussed around tacking on drapes of fabric. It took half the morning just getting the trains the right length. It would have been much quicker to have had them made in Paris when we were there anyway, but it wasn’t the done thing so naturally we hadn’t done it. We spent the afternoon resting and after dinner played checkers decorously with Mr. Maynard. Life seemed to be resuming its normal pattern. On Saturday morning, as I looked in vain for the Times on the breakfast table, I realized I hadn’t seen the papers for days. Usually Betsy and I skimmed the front page and looked at the society pages for pictures of ourselves or our friends “enjoying a joke”
