"That, ma'am," he said, "is the very finest and most elegant article not only that WE have, but which is to be found in America. It was brought out by 'our Mr. Silky,' the last voyage; HE said PARIS cannot produce its equal."
"This IS beautiful, sir, one must admit! What is the price?"
"Why, ma'am, we OUGHT in justice to ourselves to have $120 for that article; but, to our regular customers I believe Mr. Bobbinet has determined to ask ONLY $100."
This sounded exceedingly liberal—to ask ONLY $100 for that for which there was a sort of moral obligation to ask $120!—and Julia having come out with the intent to throw away a hundred-dollar note that her mother had given her that morning, the bargain was concluded. I was wrapped up carefully in paper, put into Miss Monson's muff, and once more took my departure from the empire of Col. Silky. I no longer occupied a false position.
"Now, I hope you are happy, Julia," quietly observed Mary Warren, as the two girls took their seats side by side in Mrs. Monson's chariot. "The surprise to me is, that you forgot to purchase this ne plus ultra of elegance while in Paris last summer."
{chariot = a light, four-wheeled carriage with only back seats; ne plus ultra = peak, ultimate}
"My father said he could not afford it; we spent a great deal of money, as you may suppose, in running about, seeing sights, and laying in curiosities, and when I hinted the matter to my mother, she said we must wait until another half year's rents had come round. After all, Mary, there is ONE person at home to whom I shall be ashamed to show this purchase."
"At home!—is there, indeed? Had you merely said 'in town' I could have understood you. Your father and mother approving of what you have done, I do not see who there is AT HOME to alarm you."
Julia blushed when her friend said "in town," and her conscious feelings immediately conjured up the image of a certain Betts Shoreham, as the person in her companion's mind's eye. I detected it all easily enough, being actually within six inches of her throbbing heart at that very moment, though concealed in the muff.
"It is not what you suppose, Mary, nor WHOM you suppose," answered my mistress; "I mean Mademoiselle Hennequin—I confess I DO dread the glance of her reproving eye."