large swinging mirror, surveying herself. She was a quaint object in the great yellow and purple gown, and she knew it. Her face broke into a shower of smiles and dimples.
"It will answer my purpose exactly," she cried. This was true, as it was calculated to give Madame Bourcet, and especially Louis Bourcet, nervous convulsions.
"Show me a hat to go with it—the largest hat you have."
The hat was produced—a nightmare, equal to the yellow and purple brocade. Flowers, beads, ribbons and feathers weighed it down, but Fifi demanded more of everything to be put on it, particularly feathers. When she put the hat on, with the gown, one of the young women in the establishment gave a half shriek of something between a laugh and a scream. A look from the manager sent the culprit like a shot into the back part of the shop.
Fifi, gravely examining herself in the glass, declared she was charmed with her costume and would wear it on the day of her civil marriage. Then she demanded a cloak.
"One that would look well on a dowager em-
