“Will Seer Marcous come to my room and see my pretty things?” In summer blouse and plain skirt she looked as demure as any damsel in St. John’s Wood. She hung her head a little to one side. For the moment I felt paternal, and indulgently consented. Words of man cannot describe the mass of millinery and chiffonery in that chamber. The spaces that were not piled high with vesture gave resting spots for cardboard boxes and packing-paper. Antoinette stood in a corner gazing at the spoil with a smile of beatific idiocy. I strode through the cardboard boxes which crackled like bracken, and remained dumb as a fish before these mysteries. Carlotta tried on hats. She shewed me patent leather shoes. She exhibited blouses and petticoats until my eyes ached. She brandished something in her hand. “Tell me if I must wear it” (I believe the sophisticated call it “them”). “Mrs. McMurray says all ladies do. But we never wear it in Alexandretta, and it hurts.” She clasped herself pathetically and turned her great imploring eyes on me. “_Il faut souffrir pour etre belle_,” I said. “But with the figure of Mademoiselle, it is stupid!” cried Antoinette. “It is outrageous that I should be called upon to express an opinion on such matters,” I said, loftily. And so it was. My assertion of dignity impressed them. Then, with characteristic frankness, my young lady shakes out before me things all frills, embroidery, ribbons, diaphaneity, which the ordinary man only examines through shop-front windows when a philosophic mood induces him to speculate on the unfathomable vanity of woman. “_Les beaux dessous!_” breathed Antoinette. “The same ejaculation,” I murmured, “was doubtless uttered by an enraptured waiting-maid, when she beheld the stout linen smocks of the ladies of the Heptameron.” I reflected on the relativity of things mundane. The waiting-maid no doubt wore some horror made of hemp against her skin. If Carlotta’s gossamer follies had been thrown into the vagabond court of the Queen of Navarre, I wonder whether those delectable stories would have been written? As Antoinette does not understand literary English, and as Carlotta did not know what in the world I was talking about, I was master of the conversational situation. Carlotta went to the mantel-piece and returned with a glutinous mass of sweet stuff between her fingers. “Will Seer Marcous have some? It is nougat.” I declined. “Oh!” she said, tragically disappointed. “It is good.” There is something in that silly creature’s eyes that I cannot resist. She put the abominable morsel into my mouth--it was far too sticky for me to hold--and laughingly licked her own fingers. I went down to work again with an uneasy feeling of imperilled dignity. May 29th.