While employing her wiles to get for three hundred and fifty francs a yoke and scarf aggregating four hundred, she chanced to look at her American friend. Then she walked rapidly to the rear of the shop, buried her face in her handkerchief, and seemed making heroic efforts to sneeze. Once more he was following directions to the letter. Chin resting on hands, hands resting on stick, the huge American had taken on the beatific expression of a seventeen-year-old girl thinking of something “very far away.” Virginia was long in mastering the sneeze. On the sidewalk she presented him with the package of lace and also with what she regarded the proper thing in the way of farewell speech. She supposed it _was_ hard for a man to go shopping alone; she could see how hard it would be for her own father; indeed it was seeing how difficult it would be for her father had impelled her to go with him, a stranger. She trusted his wife would like the lace; she thought it very nice, and a bargain. She was glad to have been of service to a fellow countryman who seemed in so difficult a position. But he did not look as impressed as one to whom a farewell speech was being made should look. In fact, he did not seem to be hearing it. Once more, and in earnest this time, he appeared to be thinking of something very far away. Then all at once he came back, and it was in anything but a far-away voice he began, briskly: “Now look here, Young Lady, I don't doubt but this lace is great stuff. You say so, and I haven't seen man, woman or child on this side of the Atlantic knows as much as you do. I'm mighty grateful for the lace--don't you forget that, but just the same--well, now I'll tell you. I have a very special reason for wanting something a little livelier than lace. Something that seems to have Paris written on it in red letters--see? Now, where do you get the kind of hats you see some folks wearing, and where do you get the dresses--well, it's hard to describe 'em, but the kind they have in pictures marked 'Breezes from Paris'? You see--_S-ay!_--_what_ do you think of _that?_” “That” was in a window across the street. It was an opera cloak. He walked toward it, Virginia following. “Now _there_,” he turned to her, his large round face all aglow, “is what I want.” It was yellow; it was long; it was billowy; it was insistently and recklessly regal. “That's the ticket!” he gloated. “Of course,” began Virginia, “I don't know anything about it. I am in a very strange position, not knowing what your wife likes or--or has. This is the kind of thing everything has to go _with_ or one wouldn't--one couldn't--” “Sure! Good idea. We'll just get everything to go with it.” “It's the sort of thing one doesn't see worn much outside of Paris--or New York. If one is--now my mother wouldn't care for that coat at all.” Virginia took no little pride in that tactful finish. “Can't sidetrack me!” he beamed. “I _want_ it. Very thing I'm after, Young Lady.”