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appeared in it, without warning, to our first visitors. The good people of Green Street had never seen such a garment before, even in their wildest dreams, and they were somewhat taken aback. The first detachment of callers were much perplexed, evidently, as to its nature and history. They looked me up and looked me down, and over the Watteau plait and under the lace Steinkirk, and inside the angel sleeves, till I thought they must take me for a Nihilist in disguise, or perhaps a female Jesuit in search of prey; but I dare say all the time they were mere trying to take the pattern. Poor things! that would puzzle wiser heads than theirs. They took no notice of Clare, although she always looks so much more of a swell than I do, even in her old black serge and blue spectacles. In vain I appealed to Mrs. Damon, and asked her opinion, and tried to efface myself, as in duty bound. They were not to be drawn off from Julie’s chefs-d’œuvre, and if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery I shall no doubt be sincerely flattered by the appearance of three blue tea-gowns in Green Street before we are many days older. As our visitors took their departure, I heard some of their criticisms, wafted from the veranda steps:

“‘Rather queer, isn’t it? but it suits her