Jimmie fairly howled for joy as he read this letter aloud; Bee looked very much mortified; Mrs. Jimmie exceedingly perplexed, as if uncertain what to think, but I confess that all my irritation against British shopkeepers fell away from me as a cast-off garment.  I blush to say that I shared Jimmie’s delight, and when he solemnly made me a present of the two pounds ten I had so heroically earned, I soothed my ladylike sister’s refined resentment by inviting all three to have broiled lobster with me at Scott’s.

I imagine, however, that one woman’s experience with dressmakers is like all others.  I have noticed that to introduce the subject of my personal woes in the matter is to make the conversation general, in fact I might say composite, no matter how formal the gathering of women.  Like the subject of servants, it is as provocative of conversation as classical music.

Far be it from me, however, to class all shopping in London under the head of dry goods, or the rage one gets into with every dressmaker.  In most of the shops, in fact, I may say, in all of them (for the one unfortunate experience I have related in the jeweller’s shop was the only one of the kind I ever had in London), the clerks are universally polite, interested, and obliging, no matter how smart the shop may be.  Take for instance, Jay’s, or Lewis and Allenby’s.  The instant you stop before the smallest object a saleswoman approaches and says, “Good morning.”  You say, “What a very pretty parasol!” and she replies, “It is pretty, isn’t it, modom?” She wears a skin-tight black cashmere gown with a little tail to it.  Her beautiful broad shoulders, flat back, tiny waist, bun at the back of her head, and the invisible net over the fringe, all proclaim her to be an Englishwoman, but her pronunciation of the simplest words, and the way her voice goes up and down two or three times in a single sentence, sometimes twice in a single word, might sometimes lead you to think she spoke a foreign tongue.

The English call all our voices monotonous, but it was several weeks after I reached London for the first time before I could catch the significance of a sentence the first time it was pronounced.  All over Europe our watchword with the Russians, Turks, Egyptians, Arabs, French, Germans, and Italians was always “Do you speak English?” and in London it is Jimmie’s crowning act of revenge to ask the railway guards and cab-drivers the same insulting question.  Imagine asking London cabbies the question, “Do you speak English?” It puts him in a purple rage directly.

But shopkeepers all over Europe are quick to anticipate all your wants, to suggest tempting things which have not occurred to you to buy, and to offer to have things made, if nothing in stock suits you.  I suppose I am naturally slow and stupid.  Bee says I am, but having been brought up in America, in the South, where nothing is ever made, and where we had to send to New York for everything, and where even New York has to depend on Europe for many of its staples, my surprise overpowered me so that it mortified Bee, when they offered to have silk stockings made for me in Paris.