Now they sailed among immensities of silk and satin waves.  Now they were encompassed with shawls; and now they were amid colonnades of rolls of carpet.

Mrs. Cockayne stayed here and there to make a purchase, by the help of Sophonisba’s French, which was a source of considerable embarrassment to the shopmen.  They smiled, but were very polite.

“This is not a shop, it is a palace dedicated to trade,” cried Cockayne.

“Stuff and nonsense,” was his answer; “take care of the parcels.  Yon know better, of course, than the people to whom it belongs.”

The Cockaynes found themselves borne by the endless stream of customers into a vast and lofty gallery.  Pater paused.

“This is superb!  It would have been impossible to realize——­”

“Don’t be a fool, Cockayne,” said his wife; “this is the lace department.  We must not go away without buying something.”

“Let us try,” was saucily answered.

Mrs. Cockayne immediately settled upon some Chantilly, and made her lord, as she expressed it in her pretty way, “pay for his impudence.”

The silk gallery was as grand and bewildering as the lace department; and here again were made some extraordinary bargains.

Obliging officials directed the party to the first staircase on the right, or to turn to the left, by the furnishing department.  They made a mistake, and found themselves in the salons devoted to made linen, where Mrs. Cockayne hoped her husband would not make his daughters blush with what he considered to be (and he was much mistaken) witty observations.  He was to be serious and silent amid mountains of feminine under linen.  He was to ask no questions.

In the Saint Honore gallery—­which is the furnishing department—­Mr. Cockayne was permitted to indulge in a few passing expressions of wonder.  He was hushed in the splendour of the shawl gallery—­where all is solid oak and glass and rich gold, and where the wearied traveller through the exciting scene of a Grande Occasion at the marvellous shops of the Louvre, can get a little rest and quiet.

“A wonderful place!” said Pater, as he emerged in the Rue de Rivoli, exhausted.

“And much more sensible than the place opposite,” his wife replied, pointing to the palace where the art treasures of Imperial France are imperially housed.

“Grande Occasion!” muttered Mr. Cockayne, when he reached the hotel—­“a grand opportunity for emptying one’s pocket.  The cheapness is positively ruinous.  I wonder whether there are any cheap white elephants in Paris?”

“White elephants, Cockayne!  White fiddlesticks!  I do really think, girls, your father is gradually—­mind, I say, gradually—­gradually taking leave of his senses.”

“La! mamma,” unfortunate Carrie interposed, raising her eyes from a volume on Paris in the Middle Ages—­“la! mamma, you know that in India——­”