The very small American looked at the very large one. Now Virginia was a well brought up young woman. Her conversations with strange men had been confined to such things as, “Will you please tell me the nearest way to--?” but preposterously enough--she could not for the life of her have told why--frowning upon this huge American--fat was the literal word--who stood there with puckered-up face swinging the flaming hose would seem in the same shameful class with snubbing the little boy who confidently asked her what kind of ribbon to buy for his mother. “Was it for your wife you were thinking of buying these red stockings?” she ventured. “Sure. What do you think of 'em? Look as if they came from Paris all right, don't they?” “Oh, they look as though they came from Paris, all right,” Virginia repeated, a bit grimly. “But do you know”--this quite as to that little boy who might be buying the ribbon--“American women don't always care for all the things that look as if they came from Paris. Is your wife--does she care especially for red stockings?” “Don't believe she ever had a pair in her life. That's why I thought it might please her.” Virginia looked down and away. There were times when dimples made things hard for one. Then she said, with gentle gravity: “There are quite a number of women in America who don't care much for red stockings. It would seem too bad, wouldn't it, if after you got these clear home your wife should turn out to be one of those people? Now, I think these grey stockings are lovely. I'm sure any woman would love them. She could wear them with grey suede slippers and they would be so soft and pretty.” “Um--not very lively looking, are they? You see I want something to cheer her up. She--well she's not been very well lately and I thought something--oh something with a lot of _dash_ in it, you know, would just fill the bill. But look here. We'll take both. Sure--that's the way out of it. If she don't like the red, she'll like the grey, and if she don't like the--You like the grey ones, don't you? Then here”--picking up two pairs of the handsomely embroidered grey stockings and handing them to the clerk--“One,” holding up his thumb to denote one--“me,”--a vigorous pounding of the chest signifying me. “One”--holding up his forefinger and pointing to the girl--“mademoiselle.” “Oh no--no--no!” cried Virginia, her face instantly the colour of the condemned stockings. Then, standing straight: “Certainly _not_.” “No? Just as you say,” he replied good humouredly. “Like to have you have 'em. Seems as if strangers in a strange land oughtn't to stand on ceremony.” The clerk was bending forward holding up the stockings alluringly. “_Pour mademoiselle, n'est-ce-pas_?” “_Mais--non!_” pronounced Virginia, with emphasis. There followed an untranslatable gesture. “How droll!” shoulder and outstretched hands were saying. “If the kind gentleman _wishes_ to give mademoiselle the _joli bas_--!”