The models at Bertna’s had a room to themselves .  .  .
   With a large electric fire and a vase of flowers (provided by each girl in turn) the room really looked very cosy. But its cosiness escaped Elizabeth, Bernadette and Freda on Monday morning.
   “Ugh!”  Freda groaned. “What a filthy morn­ing. And I was late last night? And does my head feel like bursting?”
   Bernadette looked at her.
   “Better take some of your bromo seltzer. If you have to show the yellow this morning, you’ll match it too well.”
   Elizabeth dragged off her frock, and in nothing but her knickers and brassiere sat down on the floor by the fire. She took off her stockings and warmed her feet.
   “Would you two like a bit of good news to cheer you up?”
   Bernadette gave her a shrewd glance.
   “Good news from you always means a nice cry all round. Let’s get it over.”
   “Well,” Elizabeth waggled her toes, “the new model is coming this morning, and who do you think it is?”
   “Who?” Freda stopped stirring the bromo seltzer. “Not that cat Sylvia we had for the show?”
   “No.” Elizabeth paused. “One of the smart, exquisite creatures out of our own workroom.”
   “The workroom!”  Freda choked over her salts. “In here! A workroom girl a model at Bertna’s! I don’t believe it.”
   Elizabeth got up and fetched the very sheer stock­ings she kept for modelling.
   “It’s true. Miss Petoff must have gone mad.”
   Bernadette stretched herself out in her chair. She opened the Daily Telegraph.
   “I’ll tell you why Miss Petoff has picked her.”
   The other two looked up.
   “Why?”
   “Because she looks right. I dare say you two have never noticed it, but there are a few good figures outside this room.”
   Freda sniffed.
   “Whatever she looks like we don’t want her in here. Something from the workroom. What sauce!”
   “That’s right.” Elizabeth put on her beige satin shoes. “Probably she’s like the advertisements. You know, ‘even your best friends won’t tell you’.”
   Miss Gale opened the door.
   “Good morning, girls.” She held the door wider to admit Annabel. “This is Annabel Brown. Miss Petoff has decided to try her in Nancy’s place.” She turned to Annabel. “Now take off your things, dear.” She looked at Freda. “She is to put on the green and blue chiffon and then come to the showroom. Miss Petoff wants to see how she shows.”
   Annabel in an agony of shyness heard the door click to behind her. She looked in terror at the three girls. At Elizabeth’s pink satin knickers. At Bernadette’s crêpe-de-Chine dressing-gown. At Freda’s lovely stockings. How was she to undress under those scathing eyes? Everything she had on was clean. But her stockings had only cost two and elevenpence, and had been bought to last. Her shoes were quite nice, but they were of thick leather with sensible heels. She was horribly conscious of a wool vest and buff artificial silk knickers with elastics at the knees. She could not show herself before these three. She would not.