feuse. Just at this time the Prefecture had decided to issue permits to women, and quite a number of enterprising young persons started in to compete with the men. They have since practically disappeared, the profession not being adapted to the sex, due perhaps to the ladies insisting on the feminine prerogative of changing their minds when meeting somebody on the road.
There was nothing indecisive about this good-looking chauffeuse. The lunching drivers were watching her, and I heard a murmur run through the room: "Look, there she is—the Countess Rosalie!"
"The Countess Rosalie?" I asked of a chauffeur at a table opposite. "That is her sobriquet?"
"Not at all," he answered. "The title is her own. She met with misfortune, and preferred to support herself driving a taxi to pinning feathers on hats. Everybody knows her. Between us, she is the only woman in Paris who can really drive."
Whatever else may have been said about her, the Countess Rosalie was nice to look at. Her glossy chestnut hair was coifed as snugly as she could twist it under her little visored cap, and the trim, pretty figure, mature yet with supple, girlish lines, was displayed charmingly and modestly in the costume of light Indian khaki. The skirt was short, and showed her small, gracefully rounded ankles and dainty feet, which told of good blood somewhere, and as she came across the sidewalk she began to draw off her little kid gauntlets, smiling, red-lipped, bright hazel eyes dancing as she replied with a charming mixture of friendliness and sauciness to the good-natured
