<p><a href="http://ionlyweardresses.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/3424650972_10c6d58f2c.jpg"><img title="3424650972_10c6d58f2c" style="border-top-width: 0px; display: block; border-left-width: 0px; float: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; border-right-width: 0px" height="627" alt="3424650972_10c6d58f2c" src="http://ionlyweardresses.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/3424650972_10c6d58f2c_thumb.jpg" width="550" border="0" /></a></p>  <p>{From Rachel Ashwell’s blog, <em><a href="http://rachelashwellshabbychic.blogspot.com/">Shabby Chic</a>.</em>&#160; Ms. Ashwell was the first designer I was ever introduced to – at the age of three.&#160; Some of my fondest memories of my childhood was watching her show with my mother.}</p>  <p><em>On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid, and between them they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder, touched her lips with coralline salve to make them redder, and Hortense would have added `a soupcon of rouge', if Meg had not rebelled. They laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly breathe and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in the mirror. A set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace, brooch, and even earrings, for Hortense tied them on with a bit of pink silk which did not show. A cluster of tea-rose buds at the bosom and a ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty, white shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied the last wish of her heart. A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a shoulder holder finished her off, and Miss Belle surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.</em></p>  <p><em>“Mademoiselle is chatmante, tres jolie, is she not?” cried Hortense, clasping her hands in an affected rapture.</em></p>  <p><em>“Come and show yourself,” said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room where the others were waiting.</em></p>  <p><em>As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her earrings tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her fun had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that she was `a little beauty'. Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase enthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood, like a jackdaw in the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like a party of magpies.</em></p>  <p><em>“While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your silver butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head, Clara, and don't any of you disturb the charming work of my hands,” said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.</em></p>  <p><em>“You don't look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I'm nowhere beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you're quite French, I assure you. Let your flowers hang, don't be so careful of them, and be sure you don't trip,” returned Sallie, trying not to care that Meg was prettier than herself.</em></p>  <p><em>Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely downstairs and sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats and a few early guests were assembled. She very soon discovered that there is a charm about fine clothes which attracts a certain class of people and secures their respect. Several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her before, were very affectionate all of a sudden. Several young gentlemen, who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only stared, but asked to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but agreeable things to her, and several old ladies, who sat on the sofas, and criticized the rest of the party, inquired who she was with an air of interest.</em></p>