“‘My friend here,’ said he, with a bow and a wave of the hand, ‘was unfortunate enough to lose a wager made between us. The terms of the bet were that the loser was to buy a new hat for one of the dining-room girls at our hotel. As we are leaving town to-morrow, we have just dropped in to see if you have anything suitable. We are both totally incompetent to decide on such a delicate matter, but we will trust entirely to your judgment in the selection.’ The milliner was quite collected by this time, as she asked: ‘Any particular style?—and about what price?’ “‘The price is immaterial,’ said he disdainfully. ‘Any man who will wager on the average weight of a train-load of cattle, his own cattle, mind you, and miss them twenty pounds, ought to pay for his lack of judgment. Don’t you think so, Miss—er—er. Excuse me for being unable to call your name—but—but—’ ‘De Ment is my name,’ said she with some little embarrassment. “‘Livingstone is mine,’ said he with a profound bow,’ and this gentleman is Mr. Ochiltree, youngest brother of Congressman Tom. Now regarding the style, we will depend entirely upon your selection. But possibly the loser is entitled to some choice in the matter. Mr. Ochiltree, have you any preference in regard to style?’ “‘Why, no, I can generally tell whether a hat becomes a lady or not, but as to selecting one I am at sea. We had better depend on Miss De Ment’s judgment. Still, I always like an abundance of flowers on a lady’s hat. Whenever a girl walks down the street ahead of me, I like to watch the posies, grass, and buds on her hat wave and nod with the motion of her walk. Miss De Ment, don’t you agree with me that an abundance of flowers becomes a young lady? And this girl can’t be over twenty.’ “‘Well, now,’ said she, going into matters in earnest, ‘I can scarcely advise you. Is the young lady a brunette or blonde?’ “‘What difference does that make?’ he innocently asked. “‘Oh,’ said she, smiling, ‘we must harmonize colors. What would suit one complexion would not become another. What color is her hair?’ “‘Nearly the color of yours,’ said he. ‘Not so heavy and lacks the natural wave which yours has—but she’s all right. She can ride a string of my horses until they all have sore backs. I tell you she is a cute trick. But, say, Miss De Ment, what do you think of a green hat, broad brimmed, turned up behind and on one side, long black feathers run round and turned up behind, with a blue bird on the other side swooping down like a pigeon hawk, long tail feathers and an arrow in its beak? That strikes me as about the mustard. What do you think of that kind of a hat, dear?’ “‘Why, sir, the colors don’t harmonize,’ she replied, blushing. “‘Theodore, do you know anything about this harmony of colors? Excuse me, madam,—and I crave your pardon, Mr. Ochiltree, for using your given name,—but really this harmony of colors is all French to me.’