Mrs. Clifford, awakened to the responsibility she was about to incur, promised to consult the artist instead of her Scotch maid; whereupon Madame Folibel handed her a large card which bore the name Monsieur de Bysterveld and his address. Under both was a note setting forth his capillary capabilities, and informing the public that-- “Monsieur de Bysterveld undertakes to prove that it is possible to become a hair-dresser and yet remain a gentleman.” The _modiste_ then assisted Mrs. Clifford to tie on her bonnet, observing, while she smoothed out the ribbon carefully as if trying to make the best of a bad case: “I am glad for her own sake that madame has consented to give up that _peigne à galerie_. It really is an injustice to her head, and it is simply out of the question her having a _chapeau convenable_ while that impediment exists. Madame will be quite another person,” she continued, addressing Mr. Clifford. “Monsieur will not recognize her with a new chignon and in a bonnet of mine.” “Oh! then I protest,” said Mr. Clifford dryly; he understood French, but did not speak it--“I protest against both the chignon and the bonnet, madame.” “_Plaît-il, monsieur?_” said Madame Folibel, looking from one to the other of us. “Dear Walter! she means I shall be so much improved,” explained the wife, laughing. “Improved!” repeated Mr. Clifford, not lifting his eye-brows, but writing _incredulity_ on every line of his face. His wife blushed, and her eyes rested on his for a moment. Then, turning quickly to Madame Folibel, she made some final arrangement about a meeting for the following day. Just at this juncture Berthe came back. I was glad she was not there in time to catch the absurd little passage between the two. A husband paying a compliment to his wife, and she blushing under it after a ten years’ _ménage_, would have been a delicious morsel of the _ridicule anglais_ that Berthe could not have withstood; it would have diverted her _salon_ for a week. “Well?” she said, five notes of interrogation plainly adding: “Are you ever going to have done?” “_C’est décidé_,” answered Madame Folibel, coming forward with an air of triumph. “Madame sacrifices the comb!” “Excellent!” exclaimed Berthe. “I congratulate you, _chère madame_. Even mentally, you will be the better of it. For my part, I know no little misery more demoralizing than an unbecoming bonnet.” We all went down-stairs together, but at the street-door we parted from the Cliffords. “Where are you going now?” asked Berthe. “To the _réunion_ at the Rue de Monceau,” I said. “I got the _faire-part_ last night, and I want particularly to be there to try and get a child into the Succursale school. There is only one vacancy, and we are six trying for it, so I fear my little _protégée_ has small chance of success. Come and give me your vote, Berthe.”