the dresses for
production after production, it would seem that the management must
share the heavy expenses of such costuming, or else salaries are very
much higher than they were a few years ago.

In France the stage, no doubt, partly fills the place of the departed
court in presenting new fashions to the public eye, doing it with the
graceful aplomb that has carried many a doubtful innovation on to sure
success. Those beautiful and trained artists take pleasure in first
presenting the style other women are to follow, and yet they share the
honour (?) with another class, whose most audacious follies in dress,
while studied from the corner of a downcast eye, are nevertheless often
slavishly followed.

How many of the thousands of women, who years ago wore the large,
flaring back, felt hat, knew they were following the whim of a woman
known to the half-world as Cora Pearl? Not pretty, but of a very
beautiful figure, and English by birth, she was, one might say, of
course, a good horse-woman. She banqueted late one night--so late that
dawn was greying the windows and the sodden faces of her guests when
they began to take leave. She had indulged in too much wine for comfort;
her head was hot. She was seized with one of the wild whims of her
lawless class--she would mount then and there and ride in the Bois.
Remonstrances chilled her whim to iron will. Horses were sent for, her
maid aroused. She flung on her habit, and held her hand out for her
chapeau. There was none.

"Mademoiselle should recall the new riding hat had been too small, had
been returned for blocking."

"Tres bien, le vieux donc, vite!"

"Oh, mon Dieu, il fut donne." A quick blow stopped further explanation.

"Quelle que cruche, que cette fille," then a moment's silence, a roving
about of the small hot eyes, and with a bound she tore from an American
artist's hand his big soft felt hat. Turning the flapping brim up, she
fastened it to the crown in three places with jewelled pins, tore a
bunch of velvet from her dinner corsage, secured it directly in front,
and clapping the hat on the back of her head, dashed downstairs and was
in the saddle with a scrabble and a bound, and away like mad, followed
by two men, who were her unwilling companions. Riding longer than she
had intended, she returned in broad daylight. All Paris was agog over
her odd head gear. Her impudent, laughing face caught their fancy yet
again, and she trotted down from the Arc de Tri