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One of the fitting-salons was open, and half in the doorway, half in the hall, stood a young woman. Her waist was off; her handsome shoulders and arms were bare, yet no more than if she had been in evening dress. She had fine brown hair with much red in it. Her features were strong and rather haughty, but delicate and pleasing. Her skin was dead-white, colorless even on her cheeks. She was frowning and biting her lip and tapping her foot on the floor. As he glanced she caught his eye. She beckoned imperiously.

He put down the dress and went slowly towards her.

“Quick,” she said, in French. “My patience is exhausted. I’ve been waiting half an hour and no fitter has come. Are you a fitter?”

“No,” he replied, also in French. “I’m not exactly a fitter; I’m a—an American. But I’ll get you one.”

“Heavens!” exclaimed the young woman, in English, and she darted into her salon and slammed the door.

Two attendants—a man and a woman—came at him from opposite directions. “But, monsieur! But, monsieur! What does monsieur do here? It is forbidden!” Their politeness was thin, indeed, over their alarm and indignation.