"Bonjour, Monsieur et Dame!" she said.
"Bonjour, Mademoiselle," we replied; and looked round for the shop-keeper. There was no other. This was the shop-keeper—this baby, with the sweet face and red plaits; now a woman, official, dignified, alert.
"You desire post-cards, 'Sieur et Dame? Here is a tray-full—please choose."
We chose. Our dame de comptoir looked on, graciously. The cards were handed to her to count: The little red head was ready first with the figure.
"Ca fait dix-neuf sous, Monsieur. Yes, I have change. Do you desire stamps?" Stamps and change were instantly forthcoming.
"Voilà, Bonjour M'sieur-Dame!"
From twenty yards away we looked back. A sweet child with ted pigtails was playing with shells on the doormat.
Don't believe people who tell you that French women are not born capable.