the long fringe, and spread forth the broad end of my scarf. "A—h—h! c' est la robe rose!" broke from his lips, affecting me very much like the sudden and irate low of some lord of the meadow.
"It is only cotton," I alleged, hurriedly; "and cheaper, and washes better than any other colour."
"Et Mademoiselle Lucie est coquette comme dix Parisiennes," he answered. "A-t-on jamais vu une Anglaise pareille. Regardez plutôt son chapeau, et ses gants, et ses brodequins!" These articles of dress were just like what my companions wore; certainly not one whit smarter—perhaps rather plainer than most—but monsieur had now got hold of his text, and I began to chafe under the expected sermon. It went off, however, as mildly as the menace of a storm sometimes passes on a summer day. I got but one flash of sheet lightning in the shape of a single bantering smile from his eyes; and then he said:—
"Courage!—à vrai dire je ne suis pas fâché, peutêtre meme suis je content qu'on s'est fait si belle pour ma petite fête."
"Mais ma robe n' est pas belle, monsieur—elle n' est que propre."
"J'aime la proprete," said he. In short, he was
