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is no doubt about that. What a fight I had with Julie before she would put in those steel beads! She plainly told me that I knew nothing about her art, and had better not interfere.

“‘But, Julie,’ I observed, ‘I know you allow those American ladies to arrange their own costumes, and why won't you take my little ideas?’

“‘Oh, those young American ladies are très sérieuses. They understand, they have the technique. Yes, ma’mselle, I take their advice; but, ah! I charge them for it in the bills—n’est ce pas! They have the ideas, but also the dollars, c’est ça. English ladies are différent.

“‘But I am not English, Julie, and I know all about your work.’

“‘Ah! Non, non, ma’mselle. You are not artiste. That is my affair. Leave it to me, and you will have une robe de fée—you will not repent. I know you have des autres affaires, but you have not the education for the toilette.’

“Julie is an impressionist!—but perhaps she is right. I know my own attempts at dress-making are failures of the deepest dye—even the housemaid refuses to wear them out; and when I attempt to trim an evening dress the flowers always look as if they were put on with a hammer and nails. The blue crêpe is very sweet, but perhaps I ought not to have