“In Paris, a month ago.”
“These handkerchiefs are also French.”
“Certainly. French handkerchiefs are the best in the world.”
He compressed his lips and looked at her.
“And that is a French hat,” he went on.
“Good heavens!” cried the girl. “One would think I was passing the customs at New York. Certainly it is French. So is my gown—so are my stockings—so is my underwear. For what else does an American woman come abroad?”
He looked at her shoes. She saw his glance and understood it.
“No; my shoes are American. The French do not know how to make shoes.”
“But the slippers are French.”
“Which slippers?”