“You see,” said Madame Clementine, spreading her hands, and looking at Madame Florence for approval. “Yes, that is the hat for madame. Regard yourself, madame—give madame the ’and-glass.”
Regina got up and walked with stately mien to the long glass set so as to catch the best light from the windows. Indeed, the toque was most becoming. She saw herself a different woman, more like those gracious, well-furnished superb British matrons whom she was accustomed to see sitting behind prancing horses and powdered footmen on those rare occasions when she had allowed herself to be inveigled into the Park. It was not a cheap toque, but Regina had the sense to see that it was worth the money asked for it.
“It is not ver’ cheap,” said Madame Clementine, “non, but it is good, it will last, it is not a toque for a day and then another for to-morrow. Then these plumes, they will come in again and again.”
“I will have it,” said Regina; “I am quite satisfied with it. I only feel, Madame Clementine, that—er—my—my upper part is, well—is superior to my lower part, what in our vernacular we call ‘a ha’-penny head and a farthing tail.’”
“Oh, ver’ good, ver’ good,” cried Madame Clementine, with your true Parisienne’s shriek of laughter. “You see, Gabrielle, the gros sou for the head and the little sou for the tail. Oh, that is most expressive. But, madame, you can remedy that.”
“Oh yes, I suppose I can,” said Regina, doubtfully, “I wish you were a dressmaker.”
“Oh, indeed, no! It does not do, you have not chic if you mix all sorts together. To be modiste and to be couturière is like being a painter and a singer at the same time. But I can tell you of a little Frenchwoman—she could dress you—ah—eugh!” And she kissed the tips of her fingers.
“Well, if you will give me her address I will go to her,” said Regina.
“To-day? But it is too late,” said Madame Florence. “Mrs. Whittaker is coming upstairs to have tea with me,” she added; “it will be ready now.”