“My dear Sophy, my dear child, here are a number of things you’ve not read.”

Sophonisba tittered, and ejaculated—­“Papa dear!”

“We have heard quite enough,” Mrs. Cockayne said, sternly; “and we’ll go to-morrow, directly after breakfast, and spend a nice morning looking over the things.”

“But there are really two or three items, my dear, Sophy has forgotten.  There are a lot of articles with lace and pen work; and think of it, my love, ten thousand ladies’ chem——­”

Mrs. Cockayne started to her feet, and shrieked—­

“Girls, leave the room!”

“What a pity, my dear,” the incorrigible Mr. Cockayne continued, in spite of the unappeasable anger of Mrs. Cockayne—­“what a pity the Magasins de Louvre were not established at the time of the celebrated emigration of the ten thousand virgins; you see there would have been just one apiece.”

CHAPTER VI.

A “GRANDE OCCASION.”

“Well, these Paris tradespeople are the most extraordinary persons in the world,” cried Sophonisba’s mamma, and the absolute ruler of Mr. Cockayne.  “I confess I can’t make them out.  They beat me.  My dear, they are the most independent set I ever came across.  They don’t seem to care whether you buy or you don’t; and they ask double what they intend to take.”

“What is the matter now, my dear?” Mr. Cockayne ventured, in an unguarded moment, to ask, putting aside for a moment Mr. Bayle St. John’s scholarly book on the Louvre.

“At any rate, Mr. Cockayne, we do humbly venture to hope that you will be able to spare us an hour this morning to accompany us to the Magasins du Louvre.  We would not ask you, but we have been told the crowd is so great that ladies alone would be torn to pieces.”

“I forget how many thousands a day, papa dear,” Sophonisba mercifully interposed, “but a good many, visit these wonderful shops.  I confess I never saw anything like even the outside of them.  The inside must be lovely.”

“I have no doubt they are, my dear,” Mr. Cockayne observed.  “They were built about ten years ago.  The foundations were——­”

“There,” cried Mrs. Cockayne, rising, “there, your papa is off with his lecture.  I shall put on my bonnet.”  And Mrs. Cockayne swept grandly from the room.

Mrs. Cockayne re-entered the room with her bonnet on; determination was painted on the lady’s countenance.  Cockayne should not escape this time.  He should be led off like a lamb to the slaughter.  Were not the silks marked at ridiculously low prices?  Was not the shawl-room a sight more than equal to anything to be seen in any other part of Paris?  Was not the folding department just as much a sight of Paris as that wretched collection of lumber in the Hotel Cluny?

Some wives had only to hint to have; but that was not the case with the hapless Mrs. Cockayne.  She was sure nobody could be more economical than she was, both for herself and the children, and that was her reward.  She had to undergo the most humiliating process of asking point-blank; even when twenty or thirty thousand pairs of gloves were to be sold at prices that were unheard of!  Men were so stupid in their meanness!