“So much the better! Talk to me of a customer like that!” exclaimed Mademoiselle Florine, clasping her hands and turning to me with a look of admiration which was almost affecting from its earnestness. “There is some compensation in working for madame, at least. If those ladies knew what I have to endure from three-quarters of the world!” And she threw up her hands and shook her head in the direction of the _premier salon_. “But let me get out the models, and see how this dream of Madame la Comtesse’s looks in reality.” Boxes of lace and embroidery were ordered out by the excited _lingère_, and under her deft and nimble fingers the dream was illustrated in the course of a few minutes. Berthe was undecided. She sat down and surveyed the combination in silent perplexity. “Really this question of _jupons_ makes life too complicated!” she said presently; “and now I begin to ask myself if these will go with any of my new dresses? The crinoline _éventail_ is going out, Monsieur Grandhomme told me, and they will never go with the _queue de moineau_ that he is bringing in!” Here was a predicament! “_Attendez_,” said Florine, dropping a dozen _rouleaux_ of lace on the floor as if such costly rags, the mere mortar and clay of her airy architecture, were not worth a thought. “Let us leave the question of _jupons_ unsettled for a while; I will go myself this evening and discuss the toilettes of Madame la Comtesse with her _femme de chambre_; we will see the style and fall of the new skirts, and adapt the _jupons_ to them.” “How good you are!” exclaimed Berthe, looking and feeling grateful for this unlooked-for solution of her difficulty. “It is a consolation to me, Madame la Comtesse,” replied Mademoiselle Florine with a sigh, “and I need a little now and then!” We wished her good-morning. “Let us go back now to Alexandrine,” said Berthe; “I hope Mrs. Clifford has made up her mind by this time.” But the hope was vain. Mrs. Clifford was standing with her back to the long mirror, looking at herself as reflected in a hand-glass that she turned so as to view her head in every possible aspect, while Mr. Clifford looked on. “Do you think it does?” she inquired as we came up to her. “I think a darker shade would suit you better,” I said; “that pale pink has no mercy on one’s complexion.” “I’ve tried on nearly every bonnet on the table,” she said, looking very miserable, “and they don’t any of them seem to do.” “Madame will not understand that the first condition of a bonnet’s suiting, after the complexion of course, is that the hair should be dressed with regard to it,” interposed Madame Alexandrine, who I could see by her flushed face and nervous manner was, as she would say herself, _à bout de patience_; “these bonnets are all made for the _coiffure à la mode_, whereas madame wears _un peigne à galerie_.” “_Dieu!_ but it is six months since the _peigne à galerie_ has been heard of!”