decent white muslin dress furnished out of the limited resources of her
own wardrobe, and a wreath of pink roses, the work of her own clever
fingers. Thus equipped, she was far less pretty than in her coquettish
little every-day cap, and looked, I regret to say, more like an
_ouvrière_ than ever. Aggravating above all else, however, was her own
undisguised delight in her appearance.

"Are my flowers all right? Is my dress tumbled? Is the hood of my cloak
in the middle of my back?" were the questions she addressed to me every
moment. In the ante-room she took advantage of each mirror we passed. In
the lobby I caught her trying to look at her own back. When we reached
our box she pulled her chair to the very centre of it, and sat there as
if she expected to be admired by the whole audience.

"My dear Josephine," I remonstrated, "sit back here, facing the stage.
You will see much better--besides, it is your proper seat, being the
only lady in the box."

"Ah, _mon Dieu!_ then I cannot see the house--and how pretty it is! Ever
so much prettier than the Gaiété, or the Porte St. Martin!"

"You can see the house by peeping behind the curtain."

"As if I were ashamed to be seen! _Par exemple_!"

"Nay, as you please. I only advise you according to custom and fashion."

Josephine pouted, and unwillingly conceded a couple of inches.

"I wish I had brought the little telescope you gave me last Sunday,"