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                                  “You’re  not  going  to  tell  me  that  is  your  sister-in-law,”  I
                            gasped.
                                  “That is Jane Napier,” said Mrs. Tower icily.
                                  At that moment she was speaking. Her host was turned towards
                            her with an  anticipatory smile.  A baldish white-haired man, with a
                            sharp,  intelligent  face,  who  sat  on  her  left,  was  leaning  forward
                            eagerly,  and  the  couple  who  sat  opposite,  ceasing  to  talk  with  one
                            another, listened intently. She said her say and they all, with a sudden
                            movement,  threw  themselves  back  in  their  chairs  and  burst  into
                            vociferous laughter. From the other side of the table a man addressed
                            Mrs. Tower:
                                  I recognized a famous statesman.
                                  “Your  sister-in-law  has  made  another  joke,  Mrs.  Tower,”  he
                            said.
                                  Mrs. Tower smiled.
                                  “She’s priceless, isn’t she?”
                                  “Let me have a long drink of champagne and then for heaven’s
                            sake tell me all about it,” I said.
                                  Well,  this  is  how  I  gathered  it  had  all  happened.  At  the
                            beginning  of  their  honeymoon  Gilbert  took  Jane  to  various
                            dressmakers  in  Paris  and  he  made  no  objection  to  her  choosing  a
                            number of “gowns” after her own heart; but he persuaded her to have
                            a “frock” or two made according to his own design. It appeared that
                            he  had  a  knack  for  that  kind  of  work.  He  engaged  a  smart  French
                            maid.  Jane  had  never  had  such  a  thing  before.  She  did  her  own
                            mending and when she wanted “doing up” she was in the  habit  of
                            ringing for the housemaid. The dresses Gilbert had devised were very
                            different from anything she had worn before; but he had been careful
                            not  to  go  too  far  too  quickly,  and  because  it  pleased  him  she
                            persuaded  herself,  though  not  without  misgivings,  to  wear  them  in
                            preference to those she had chosen herself. Of course she could not
                            wear them with the voluminous petticoats she had been in the habit of
                            using,  and  these,  though  it  cost  her  an  anxious  moment,  she
                            discarded.
                                  “Now,  if  you please,” said Mrs. Tower, with something  very
                            like a sniff of disapproval, “she wears nothing but thin silk tights. It’s
                            a wonder to me she doesn’t catch her death of cold at her age.”
                                  Gilbert and the French maid taught her how to wear her clothes,
                            and unexpectedly enough, she was very quick at learning. The French
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