model's shoulders) "and the slope of the hips. It is perfect. And
the embroidery and the trimming, all made on the material of the mantle
itself by my own embroiderers."

This afternoon Epinglard is in a theorizing mood, and, after having sent
for Bamboula, as he calls her familiarly, a dark-skinned model, he
drapes her in a pale-yellow tulle dress, and proceeds to lament that so
few Frenchwomen will wear yellow, owing to a silly popular prejudice.
"Ah, madame la baronne," he continues, "you cannot conceive what lovely
combinations of rose and yellow I have made. Why not? There are roses
with yellow pistils. Why should not we do in stuffs what nature does in
flowers? For us _couturiers_, as for the painter and the sculptor, the
great source of inspiration is nature. There are many of my colleagues
who fill their portfolios with the engravings of Eisen, Debucourt,
Moreau, and the masters of the eighteenth century. But this is not
sufficient: we must go back to nature. I pass my summer in the country,
and in the rich combinations of floral color I find the gamut of tones
for my toilets. But I am allowing myself to theorize too much. If madame
la baronne will be good enough to come to-morrow, I will compose
something for her in the mean time. This afternoon I am scarcely in the
humor for a creation of such importance." And, with a grave salute,
Epinglard passes into a saloon where two ladies are waiting impatiently,
particularly the younger of the two, who has come, under the wing of her
fashionable relative, to be introduced to the _grand couturier_.

"_Bonjour_, Monsieur Epinglard," begins the elder. "I have come to ask
you to create a masterpiece. It will not be the first time, will it? My
niece is going to her first ball next month, and I wish her to have a
dress on which your signature will be visible."

Epinglard falls into a meditative pose, his elbow in one hand, his chin
in the other, and looks long at the young girl, scrutinizing not only
the line and modelling of the body, but the expression of the face, the
eyes, the shade and nature of the hair, reading her temperament with the
lucidity of a phrenologist aided by the divination of a plastic artist
who has had great experience of feminine humanity. The examination lasts
many minutes, and finally, as if under the inspiring influence of the
god of taste, Epinglard, in broken phrases, composes the dress:
"Toilette entirely of tulle ... corsage plaited diagonally