upon the brilliant idea of working up his derelict fabrics into
ready-mades: not men's clothes, oh no: women's, or rather, ladies'.
Ladies' Tailoring, said the new announcement.
James Houghton was happy once more. A zig-zag wooden stair-way was
rigged up the high back of Manchester House. In the great lofts
sewing-machines of various patterns and movements were installed. A
manageress was advertised for, and work-girls were hired. So a new
phase of life started. At half-past six in the morning there was a
clatter of feet and of girls' excited tongues along the back-yard
and up the wooden stair-way outside the back wall. The poor invalid
heard every clack and every vibration. She could never get over her
nervous apprehension of an invasion. Every morning alike, she felt
an invasion of some enemy was breaking in on her. And all day long
the low, steady rumble of sewing-machines overhead seemed like the
low drumming of a bombardment upon her weak heart. To make matters
worse, James Houghton decided that he must have his sewing-machines
driven by some extra-human force. He installed another plant of
machinery--acetylene or some such contrivance--which was intended to
drive all the little machines from one big belt. Hence a further
throbbing and shaking in the upper regions, truly terrible to
endure. But, fortunately or unfortunately, the acetylene plant was
not a success. Girls got their thumbs pierced, and sewing machines
absolutely refused to stop sewing, once they had started, and
absolutely refused to start, once they had stopped. So that after a
while, one loft was reserved for disused and rusty, but expensive
engines.
Dame Fortune, who had refused to be taken by fine fabrics and fancy
trimmings, was just as reluctant to be captured by ready-mades.
Again the good dame was thoroughly lower middle-class. James
Houghton designed "robes." Now Robes were the mode. Perhaps it was
Alexandra, Princess of Wales, who gave glory to the slim,
glove-fitting Princess Robe. Be that as it may, James Houghton
designed robes. His work-girls, a race even more callous than
shop-girls, proclaimed the fact that James tried on his own
inventions upon his own elegant thin person, before the privacy of
his own cheval mirror. And even if he did, why not? Miss Frost,
hearing this legend, looked sideways at the enthusiast.
Let us remark in time that Miss Frost had already ceased to draw any
maintenance from James Houghton. Far from it, she herself
contributed to the upkeep of the domestic hearth and board. She had
fully decided never to leave her two charges. She knew that a
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