BY the time they decided what Carol would wear for her wedding (white with white flowers), it was the end of the afternoon. Madame Germaine removed the sketch books, the scraps of net and satin, the stacks of Vogue; she had, already, a professional look of anxiety, as if it could not possibly come out well. One foresaw seams ripped Open, extra fittings, even Carol's tears. Odile, Carol's friend, seemed disappointed. White isn't original, she said. If it were me, I would certainly not be married in all that rubbish of lace, like a First Com munion. She picked threads from her skirt fastidiously, as if to remove herself completely from Carol and her unoriginal plans.