plosive ecstasies, and an astute taste in clothes that tempered her Spanish flair for bright color with an acquired American dislike for the flagrantly gaudy—Carmelita, despite her decided opinions and her flashes of South American temper at times, was a pleasure to serve. In the good modiste there is something of the artist that responded instantly at the sight of her.
The landaulet, flowing smoothly through the mellow sunshine of the Rue de la Paix at length glided toward the curbing and came to a stop. The impassive French chauffeur held open the door and Carmelita alighted. Across the concrete sidewalk another uniformed Frenchman was holding aside another door, the entrance to the famous and, on the outside, quite somber establishment of Doucet et Cie, gowns. But within all was mellow color, soft carpets, velvet tapestries, and bowing attendants with frock coats.
Carmelita had hardly made her entrance when a small, bald-headed man with a funny, waxed moustache and a flower in his buttonhole came twittering up to meet her.
"Carmelita, my dear," he exclaimed, "we thought you would never get here." Even as he uttered his complaint his little sea-blue eyes flitted momentarily to a good-looking manni-
