pleasures to be found
in this vale of tears. The shops, with the exception of the Louvre, the
Bon Marche, and one or two of the large department stores of similar
scope, are all small--tiny, in fact, and exploit but one or two things.
A little shop for fans will be next to a milliner who makes a specialty
of nothing but gauze theatre bonnets. Perhaps next will come a linen
store, where the windows will have nothing but the most fascinating
embroidery, handkerchiefs, and neckware. Then comes the man who sells
belts of every description, and parasol handles. Perhaps your next
window will have such a display of diamond necklaces as would justify
you in supposing that his stock would make Tiffany choke with envy, but
if you enter, you will find yourself in an aperture in the wall, holding
an iron safe, a two-by-four show-case, and three chairs, and you will
find that everything of value he has, except the clothes he wears, are
all in his window.

As long as these shops are all crowded together and so small, to shop in
Paris is really much more convenient than in one of our large department
stores at home, with the additional delight of having smiling interested
service. The proprietor himself enters into your wants, and uses all his
quickness and intelligence to supply your demands. He may be, very
likely he is, doubling the price on you, because you are an American,
but, if your bruised spirit is like mine, you will be perfectly willing
to pay a little extra for politeness.

It is a truth that I have brought home with me no article from Paris
which does not carry with it pleasant recollections of the way I bought
it. Can any woman who has shopped only in America bring forward a
similar statement?

All this changes, however, when once you get into the clutches of the
average French dressmaker. By his side, Barabbas would appear a
gentleman of exceptional honesty. I have often, in idle moments,
imagined myself a cannibal, and, in preparing my daily menu, my first
dish would be a fricassee of French dressmakers. Perhaps in that I am
unjust. In thinking it over, I will amend it by saying a fricassee of
_all_ dressmakers. It would be unfair to limit it to the French.

There is one thing particularly noticeable about the charm which French
shop-windows in one of the smart streets like the rue de la Paix
exercises upon the American woman, and that is that it very soon wears
off, and she sees that most of the things exploited