“How lucky!” she cried, running across the landing to me, then _sotto voce_: “Madame Clifford [pronounced Cliefore] is here, and wants me to choose a bonnet for her. Now, if there’s a thing I hate, it is choosing a bonnet for an Englishwoman. To begin with, they don’t possess the first rudiments of culture in dress, then they can never make up their minds, and they find everything too dear; but the crowning absurdity is that they bring their husbands with them, and _consult them!_ _Figurez-vous, ma chère!_” And Berthe, with a Frenchwoman’s keen sense of the comic, laughed merrily at the ludicrous conceit. I laughed with her, though not quite from the same point of view. “I made an excuse to get away for a few minutes, and left the _ménage_ discussing a pink tulle with marabout and beetle-wings trimming--_un petit poème, chérie_--but,” she caught me by the arm, “fancy Madame Clifford’s complexion under it!” “_Ah, bonjour, mesdames!_ I am at the order of _ces dames_. Will they take the pains to seat themselves just for one second?” continued Madame Augustine, who greeted us in the first _salon_, where she was carrying on a warm debate on the relative merits of Alençon _versus_ Valenciennes as a trimming for a bridal _peignoir_. “I merely wanted to say a word with reference to my order of yesterday. Where is Mademoiselle Florine?” inquired Berthe, looking round the room, where there were several groups ordering pretty things. “Florine! Florine!” called out Madame Augustine. “_Voici, madame!_”