We went into the store, had the wire woman undressed, and her Dolly carried up-stairs, where I put it on, behind a red curtain, with a chatty female woman hooking it together, and buttoning it up in puffs and waves that made me stand out like a race-horse with a saddle on. The girl was French, with a touch of the Irish brogue—just enough to give richness to the language.
I asked her what was the reason of it, and she said in their establishment a great many of the upper crust Irish came to trade, and she had caught just the least taste of a brogue in waiting on them—which was natural, and accounts for the accent so many of these French girls have, which I must own has puzzled me a little.
When my dress was on, E. E. and this French girl led me up to a great, tall looking-glass, and stood with their hands folded, while I took an observation. The French girl clasped her hands, and spoke first:
"No," says I, "that is not exactly my state of mind—composed I may be, but not jolly, by any manner of means."
"She means that the dress is beautiful," says E. E.
"Oh!" says I, "why didn't she say so then?"
"Well, she did, in her way."
"Magnifique," says the girl, cutting the word off with a squeak.
"Why can't you open your mouth wide enough to say magnificent," says I, "if you like it so much; nipping off words with a bite isn't one thing or another."