"But Madame does not understand; I speak English so much in this country that my own language gets knocked into smithereens. I beg pardon—into confusion. Madame must be very perfect herself to detect it."
I felt a smile creeping over my lips. Really, sisters, I had been too hard on the poor woman. It was not her fault if my ear was so very correct that nothing but the purest accent could satisfy me. She saw this look dawning upon my face, and I knew that she felt relieved by the way her elbows settled down on the counter again.
"If madame will take a chair—that is, repose herself. Madame—"
"Excuse me," says I, benignly, for I didn't want to hurt her feelings again. "Mademoiselle, if you please."
"Pardon me," says she, humbly.
"Just so," says I, benignly. "Now supposing we go on about this ball-dress. How much silk will it take?"
The woman sat and thought to herself ever so long. Then she counted her fingers over once or twice. Then she said she didn't exactly know how much, which is the way with dress-makers all over the world, I do believe.
"But one won't buy a dress without knowing how much to ask for," says I. "Say twelve yards now?"
The woman lifted herself right off from the counter, and sat staring at me.
"Twelve!" says she, "eighteen at the least."