“This was no place to buy dresses,” said she crossly.
“Well, I wish I knew where the places were to buy things,” he replied, humbly, forlornly.
“Well, what do you want to buy?” demanded she, still crossly.
“Why, I want to buy some nice things for my wife. Something the real thing from Paris, you know. I came over from London on purpose. But Lord,”—again wiping his brow—“a fellow doesn't know where to go.”
“Oh well,” sighed Virginia, long-sufferingly, “I see I'll just have to take you. There doesn't seem any way out of it. It's evident you can't go alone. Seven hundred francs!”
“I suppose it was too much,” he conceded meekly. “I tell you I will be grateful if you'll just stay by me a little while. I never felt so up against it in all my life.”
“Now, a very nice thing to take one's wife from Paris,” began Virginia didactically, when they reached the sidewalk, “is lace.”
“L—ace? Um! Y—es, I suppose lace is all right. Still it never struck me there was anything so very lively looking about lace.”
“'Lively looking' is not the final word in wearing apparel,” pronounced Virginia in teacher-to-pupil manner. “Lace is always in good taste, never goes out of style, and all women care for it. I will take you to one of the lace shops.”
“Very well,” acquiesced he, truly chastened. “Here, let's get in this cab.”