on, were painful to witness. First he threaded corridors, then he
was in the carpet gallery, and now he was in the splendid, the palatial
shawl-hall, where elegant ladies were trying on shawls of costly fabric,
with that grace and quiet for which Parisians are unmatched.

"This is superb! Oh, this is very, very fine!" cried the ladies. "How on
earth shall we find our way out?"

Now they sailed among immensities of silk and satin waves. Now they were
encompassed with shawls; and now they were amid colonnades of rolls of
carpet.

Mrs. Cockayne stayed here and there to make a purchase, by the help of
Sophonisba's French, which was a source of considerable embarrassment to
the shopmen. They smiled, but were very polite.

"This is not a shop, it is a palace dedicated to trade," cried Cockayne.

"Stuff and nonsense," was his answer; "take care of the parcels. Yon
know better, of course, than the people to whom it belongs."

The Cockaynes found themselves borne by the endless stream of customers
into a vast and lofty gallery. Pater paused.

"This is superb! It would have been impossible to realize----"

"Don't be a fool, Cockayne," said his wife; "this is the lace
department. We must not go away without buying something."

"Let us try," was saucily answered.

Mrs. Cockayne immediately settled upon some Chantilly, and made her
lord, as she expressed it in her pretty way, "pay for his impudence."

The silk gallery was as grand and bewildering as the lace department;
and here again were made some extraordinary bargains.

Obliging officials directed the party to the first staircase on the
right, or to turn to the left, by the furnishing department. They made a
mistake, and found themselves in the _salons_ devoted to made linen,
where Mrs. Cockayne hoped her husband would not make his daughters blush
with what he considered to be (and he was much mistaken) witty
observations. He was to be serious and silent amid mountains of feminine
under linen. He was to ask no questions.

In the Saint Honore gallery--which is the furnishing department--Mr.
Cockayne was permitted to indulge in a few passing expressions of
wonder. He was hushed in the splendour of the shawl gallery--where all
is solid oak and glass and rich gold, and where the wearied traveller
through the exciting scene of a _Grande Occasion_ at the marvellous
shops of the Louvre, can get a little rest and quiet.

"A wonderful place!" said Pater, as he emerged in t