Sophia, on arriving in Paris with the ring on her triumphant finger, had timidly mentioned the subject of frocks.  None would have guessed from her tone that she was possessed by the desire for French clothes as by a devil.  She had been surprised and delighted by the eagerness of Gerald’s response.  Gerald, too, was possessed by a devil.  He thirsted to see her in French clothes.  He knew some of the shops and ateliers in the Rue de la Paix, the Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin, and the Palais Royal.  He was much more skilled in the lore of frocks than she, for his previous business in Paris had brought him into relations with the great firms; and Sophia suffered a brief humiliation in the discovery that his private opinion of her dresses was that they were not dresses at all.  She had been aware that they were not Parisian, nor even of London; but she had thought them pretty good.  It healed her wound, however, to reflect that Gerald had so marvellously kept his own counsel in order to spare her self-love.  Gerald had taken her to an establishment in the Chaussee d’Antin.  It was not one of what Gerald called les grandes maisons, but it was on the very fringe of them, and the real haute couture was practised therein; and Gerald was remembered there by name.

Sophia had gone in trembling and ashamed, yet in her heart courageously determined to emerge uncompromisingly French.  But the models frightened her.  They surpassed even the most fantastic things that she had seen in the streets.  She recoiled before them and seemed to hide for refuge in Gerald, as it were appealing to him for moral protection, and answering to him instead of to the saleswoman when the saleswoman offered remarks in stiff English.  The prices also frightened her.  The simplest trifle here cost sixteen pounds; and her mother’s historic ‘silk,’ whose elaborateness had cost twelve pounds, was supposed to have approached the inexpressible!  Gerald said that she was not to think about prices.  She was, however, forced by some instinct to think about prices—­she who at home had scorned the narrowness of life in the Square.  In the Square she was understood to be quite without commonsense, hopelessly imprudent; yet here, a spring of sagacity seemed to be welling up in her all the time, a continual antidote against the general madness in which she found herself.  With extraordinary rapidity she had formed a habit of preaching moderation to Gerald.  She hated to ‘see money thrown away,’ and her notion of the boundary line between throwing money away and judiciously spending it was still the notion of the Square.

Gerald would laugh.  But she would say, piqued and blushing, but self-sure:  “You can laugh!” It was all deliciously agreeable.