Mademoiselle Florine was a plump little _boulette_ of a woman, who wore her nose _retroussé_ and always looked at you as if she had reason to complain of you. Without being uncivil, she looked it; her nose had a supercilious expression that made you feel it was considering you _de haut en bas_. The fact is, Mademoiselle Florine was not happy. She was disappointed, not in love, but with life in general, and with _lingerie_ in particular. She had adopted _lingerie_ as a vocation, and now it was going down in the world; it was degenerating into _pacotille_; _grandes dames_ began to grow cold about it, and to wear collars and cuffs that a _petite bourgeoise_ would have turned up her nose at ten years ago. More grievous still was the change that had come over petticoats. The deterioration in this line she took terribly to heart, and the surest way to enlist her good graces and secure her interest in your order, be it ever so small, was to preface it with a sigh or a sneer at red Balmorals or other gaudy and economical inventions which had dethroned the snowy _jupon blanc_ of her youth, with its tucks and frills and dainty edgings of lace or embroidery. Berthe, it so happened, very strongly shared this dislike to colored petticoats, and was guilty of considerable extravagance in the choice of white ones; Mademoiselle Florine’s sympathies consequently went out to her, and, no matter how busily she was engaged or with whom, she would fly to Berthe as to a kindred soul the moment she appeared. “I have been thinking over those _jupons à traine_ that I ordered yesterday,” said Berthe to the pugnacious-looking little _lingère_, “and I have an idea that the _entre-deux anglais_ will be a failure. We ought to have decided on Valenciennes.” “Ah! I thought Madame la Comtesse would come round to it!” observed Mademoiselle Florine with a smile of supreme satisfaction. “I told Madame la Comtesse it was a mistake.” “Yes, I felt you didn’t approve; but really twelve hundred francs for six petticoats did seem a great deal,” observed Berthe deprecatingly. “Now, suppose we put alternately one row of deep _entre-deux_ and a _tuyauté de batiste_ edged with a narrow Valenciennes instead of all Valenciennes?” “_Voyons--réfléchissons!_” said Mademoiselle Florine, putting her finger to her lips, and knitting her brow. “It occurred to me in my bed last night,” continued Berthe, “and I fell asleep and actually dreamed of it, and you can’t think how pretty it looked, so light and at the same time _très garni_.”