"An overskirt before," says I, lifting both hands, satchel and all. "Why, every skirt that I've seen in the street, or anywhere else, was puckered and bunched up behind," says I. "Excuse me, but I really couldn't think of wearing 'em in any other way." The French dress-maker--I know she was French by the letter E after Madam, and because the sign said she was from Paris. Well, she colored up, and looked every which way at first, but then she gave a skimping laugh, and said that I didn't understand French. I--I didn't understand French! I who had studied "French without a Master" as a speciality, with the most intelligent member of our circle, and conversed in the language as directed by that excellent book so fluently that the pronunciation sounded almost like English nipped off a little! This was too much. The clear grit, which lies at the bottom of every New England woman's heart, riled up in mine when that cherished accomplishment was cast into disrepute. "Madame," says I, putting a keen emphasis on that E, "I came here to inquire about the most fashionable way of making a dress, not to give or take a lesson in the languages. Permit me to say I never could submit to wear an overskirt in the way you speak of--wrong side before--why, it would look dreadfully." "But Madame does not understand; I speak English so much in this country that my own language gets knocked into smithereens. I beg pardon--into confusion. Madame must be very perfect herself to detect it." I felt a smile creeping over my lips. Really, sisters, I had been too hard on the poor woman. It was not her fault if my ear was so very correct that nothing but the purest accent could satisfy me. She saw this look dawning upon my face, and I knew that she felt relieved by the way her elbows settled down on the counter again. "If madame will take a chair--that is, repose herself. Madame--" "Excuse me," says I, benignly, for I didn't want to hurt her feelings again. "_Mademoiselle_, if you please." "Pardon me," says she, humbly. "Just so," says I, benignly. "Now supposing we go on about this ball-dress. How much silk will it take?" The woman sat and thought to herself ever so long. Then she counted her fingers over once or twice. Then she said she didn't exactly know how much, which is the way with dress-makers all over the world, I do believe. "But one won't buy a dress without knowing how much to ask for," says I. "Say twelve yards now?" The woman lifted herself right off from the counter, and sat staring at me. "Twelve!" says she, "eighteen at the least." I felt as if some one had struck me. Eighteen yards for a dress, and gored all to pieces at that! "Some of your dress-makers in Broadway would want more than that!" says she, "and send for more and more after that." I made no answer, but took up my satchel and walked straight out of the door. Eighteen yards of silk for a dress! The thought of it kept me awake all night.