have been
possible?

I was in Boston. It was Friday, and knowing it to be the reception day
of Mrs. X., an old friend of mine and my wife's, I thought I would call
upon her early, before the crowd of visitors had begun to arrive. So I
went to the house about half-past three in the afternoon. Mrs. X.
received me in the drawing-room, and we were soon talking on the hundred
and one topics that old friends have on their tongue tips. Presently the
conversation fell on love and lovers. Mrs. X. drew her chair up a little
nearer to the fire, put the toes of her little slippers on the fender
stool, and with a charmingly confidential, but perfectly natural,
manner, said:

"You are married and love your wife; I am married and love my husband;
we are both artists, let's have our say out."

And we proceeded to have our say out.

But all at once I noticed that about half an inch of the seam of her
black silk bodice was unsewn. We men, when we see a lady with something
awry in her toilette, how often do we long to say to her: "Excuse me,
madam, but perhaps you don't know that you have a hairpin sticking out
two inches just behind your ear," or "Pardon me, Miss, I'm a married
man, there is something wrong there behind, just under your waist belt."

Now I felt for Mrs. X., who was just going to receive a crowd of callers
with a little rent in one of her bodice seams, and tried to persuade
myself to be brave and tell her of it. Yet I hesitated. People take
things so differently. The conversation went on unflagging. At last I
could not stand it any longer.

"Mrs. X.," said I, all in a breath, "you are married and love your
husband; I am married and love my wife; we are both artists; there is a
little bit of seam come unsewn, just there by your arm, run and get it
sewn up!"

The peals of laughter that I heard going on upstairs, while the damage
was being repaired, proved to me that there was no resentment to be
feared, but, on the contrary, that I had earned the gratitude of Mrs. X.

* * * * *

In many respects I have often been struck with the resemblance which
exists between French and American women. When I took my first walk on
Broadway, New York, on a fine afternoon some two years and a half ago, I
can well remember how I exclaimed: "Why, this is Paris, and all these
ladies are _Parisiennes_!" It struck me as being the same type of face,
the same animation of features, the same brightness of t