“Yes, Maman!” urged the other two, breathlessly. A ripple of amusement spread through the crowd.
“Two thousand, five hundred, and seventy-five,” announced that lady with excessive poise, and switched a superior smile over the entire assembly.
But the bidding became general, and little by little the price went up. The hat was now the sensation of Paris; every franc bid increased the sensation; and tout Paris, which lives on sensation, bid on. Then entered the lists a modest little gentleman with a pince-nez, a nouveau riche of the war, who felt himself intruding wherever he went. His timid voice becoming weaker with every increase until at last it was only a whisper, he began persistently overtopping every bid made.
“Four thousand, forty-five,” bid the blond youth.
“Four thousand, fifty,” bid the gentleman in the pince-nez.
“Four thousand, fifty-five,” bid the lady in pearls.
“Four thousand, sixty,” bid the gentleman in the pince-nez, almost automatically.
The lady in pearls set her jaw.
“Four thousand, sixty-one,” she pronounced grimly.
The blond youth mopped his overheated brow and shot his bolt.