After all, he was ready long before the shutters of those attractive plate glass windows were taken away; but he was not sorry for that.  He had the joy of walking down to the Condamine and gazing up at other windows far more attractive, and saying to the closed green blinds, “Merry Christmas, merry Christmas, my darling—­mine for always, now!”

Then he darted back to rolls and coffee; beamed on the waiters, gave them fat five franc pieces merely for beaming in return; and arrived in the Galerie Charles Trois just as the shop windows were opening radiant Christmas eyes.

The first visit he paid was to the florist’s; and to save time in choosing he simply said, “I’ll take all those things you have in the window, please.”

There were about two hundred francs worth of roses, the same of white lilacs, and enough lilies of the valley, nestling in baby leaves of yellow green, to clean out any save a well-filled pocket book; but that was all the better.  The more he could spend to-day, the more was Hugh Egerton pleased.  He gave “Madame Clifford’s” address, and wrote something in English on his visiting card.  The flowers were to go at once; at once, mind; not in fifteen minutes, but now, this very now.

“How much in love is that handsome young Monsieur!” thought the Mademoiselle of the shop, with a little sigh for some of the wonders of the world which she had missed, and must always miss.  Her heels were appallingly high, and her waist was incredibly small; but she had a heart; and there was no heart which would not have softened to Hugh, and wished him the best of good luck, this day.

The next window which attracted the young man’s eye, was one which displayed just such a dress as he had vaguely pictured yesterday, for a dear companion on the terrace.  It was white, of course; and he was not sure, but he thought it was made of cloth.  Anyway there was a lot of embroidery on it, full of little holes, which somehow contrived to be extraordinarily fetching.  It had a mantle which hung in soft folds, marvellously intricate, yet simple in effect; and he could have fallen upon the neck of the stout, powdered lady in black silk who assured him that the costume could be worn without alteration by any “dame de jolie taille.”

He bought it instantly, and then seized upon precisely such a “long white thing” of ermine as he had seen in his mind’s eye.  A “granny” muff went with it. (Really the people of the shop must have had prophetic souls!) And there was a white hat, with a gold buckle and a long white ostrich feather which looked as if it had been born to shade the face of Evelyn Clifford.