"But yellow is so last season, darling." The saleswoman drew out the word 'darling', turning it into a louche drawl - an affectation that Lydia found offensive and annoying. "You want to stand out from the crowd, don't you? But not like this."
Lydia blushed and looked around the vaulted hall of the ladies' department. Everywhere she looked, she could see curious heads turning towards her to see what the commotion was about. "I just want to make an impression," Lydia said. "You see, I'm -."
"Going to a ball? An evening at a salon? Ladies' Day at the races? Don't worry, darling." Again the awful, affected drawl. "We'll create something just for you." The saleswoman took Lydia by her left arm, and led her past displays of dresses and corsetry to a curtained-off area at the rear of the department. "In here please, darling."
The saleslady pulled aside the curtain to reveal a mirrored booth surrounded by columns of gears and lensed turrets. Next to the booth was a mahogany console that was covered in dials and levers. Lydia hesitated. "What's this?"
"It's the latest, darling - from gay Paree. Monsieur Verité's Figurative Analyser and Fashion Prognosticator (patent pending)." The saleslady took a deep breath before embarking on the rest of her advertising blurb. "It takes a lady's vital measurements while ensuring maintenance of modesty. Then it examines its library of the latest fashions and selects clothing and accessories to delight and compliment a lady's appearance for any occasion." The saleslady winked at Lydia. "You don't have to worry about displaying your undergarments. Darling."
Lydia winced at the implication. "Very well." She disengaged herself from the saleslady and entered the booth. The mirrored door closed behind her, and then a ghostly light illuminated her and her reflections.
A series of clicks and whirrs came from outside the cubicle. "Darling," the saleslady drawled. "You really could do with some better foundations. These ones do nothing for you. But we can fix that." Lydia clenched her fists and set her jaw. "Now, shall we see what Monsieur Verité can do for you?"
The light in the booth changed, as did the images in the mirrors. They were no longer just reflections of Lydia, but instead showed her clad in (her opinion) a frightful confection of lace, bows and crepe de chine. "Do you have anything more -," Lydia began, but the saleslady cut her off.
"More striking, darling? But of course."
Lydia was confronted by a series of images, each more gaudy and impractical than the last. The saleslady ignored her protests. Unable to stand the mounting indignities, Lydia pushed open the booth door and stormed past the (still drawling) saleslady. She stopped her rush at a display of gloves.
"These." Lydia grabbed a pair of grey silk gloves and thrust them towards the shocked saleslady. "These will be sufficient for the impression I wish to make. Put them on my account - darling!"
