“You are making your dress?” “Such as it is. " "O Heavens!" screamed Winifred, while her father lifted up his hands in silent horror. She was curious to know why he had boarded a dingy train instead of hailing a cab or his own private chauffeur like the others in expensive suits were doing. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. Father had traveled to Florence to the Mercato Nuovo, staying away for a half year at a time paying court to the house of the silk merchant Iovelli, which was patronized by none other than the Medicis. She lay still for a long time, and her mind resumed at a more tolerable pace.
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