One day in a great magazine of Paris a small grease spot will be found upon the carpet, and someone will approach and say, "Tiens donc, this grease spot; what is it?"
And they will call Mr. Stirlock Roames, the detective, and he will say, "Ah, it is the remains of a great dramatic critic. By my process of induction I perceive that he was a remarkable genius, and owned a yellow dog with a gift for solo leapfrog. He had one fault: he was too good. If you bring me a small piece of blotting-paper and a flat iron I will pick him up."
And the grease spot will be removed to Westminster Abbey, and the readers of the Clarion will wear sackcloth and ashes ever after.
Ah! mon Dieu! These shops!
"Ask the man," says She who must be obeyed, "to show me an accordeon-pleated plain bell-skirt with a deep hem and shallow basque of glycine velvet, shirred with a shallow round yoke of fine guise guipure, and broadly turned back lapels of material to match, and ample Marie Stuart sleeves of white satin mounted on lace, braceleted with a band of silver and pearl-embroidered satin slashed to the elbow."
A college of professors of languages, armed with a library of technical dictionaries would be compelled to give it up.
But I dare not.
If I confessed myself unable to translate this wholesale order offhand into current Parisian, Madame would denounce me as an impostor on the spot.
Therefore I translate it for her, but I work it on a system. Thus—