What “façons mondaines” he discovered in my present winter merino and plain white collar, I own it puzzled me to guess: and when I asked him, he said it was all made with too much attention to effect—and besides, “had I not a bow of ribbon at my neck?” “And if you condemn a bow of ribbon for a lady, Monsieur, you would necessarily disapprove of a thing like this for a gentleman?”—holding up my bright little chainlet of silk and gold. His sole reply was a groan—I suppose over my levity. After sitting some minutes in silence, and watching the progress of the chain, at which I now wrought more assiduously than ever, he inquired: “Whether what he had just said would have the effect of making me entirely detest him?” I hardly remember what answer I made, or how it came about; I don’t think I spoke at all, but I know we managed to bid good-night on friendly terms: and, even after M. Paul had reached the door, he turned back just to explain, “that he would not be understood to speak in entire condemnation of the scarlet dress” (“Pink! pink!” I threw in); “that he had no intention to deny it the merit of _looking_ rather well” (the fact was, M. Emanuel’s taste in colours decidedly leaned to the brilliant); “only he wished to counsel me, whenever I wore it, to do so in the same spirit as if its material were ‘bure,’ and its hue ‘gris de poussière.’” “And the flowers under my bonnet, Monsieur?” I asked. “They are very little ones—?” “Keep them little, then,” said he. “Permit them not to become full-blown.” “And the bow, Monsieur—the bit of ribbon?” “Va pour le ruban!” was the propitious answer. And so we settled it.