court in presenting new fashions to the public eye, doing it with the
graceful aplomb that has carried many a doubtful innovation on to sure
success. Those beautiful and trained artists take pleasure in first
presenting the style other women are to follow, and yet they share the
honour (?) with another class, whose most audacious follies in dress,
while studied from the corner of a downcast eye, are nevertheless often
slavishly followed.

How many of the thousands of women, who years ago wore the large,
flaring back, felt hat, knew they were following the whim of a woman
known to the half-world as Cora Pearl? Not pretty, but of a very
beautiful figure, and English by birth, she was, one might say, of
course, a good horse-woman. She banqueted late one night--so late that
dawn was greying the windows and the sodden faces of her guests when
they began to take leave. She had indulged in too much wine for comfort;
her head was hot. She was seized with one of the wild whims of her
lawless class--she would mount then and there and ride in the Bois.
Remonstrances chilled her whim to iron will. Horses were sent for, her
maid aroused. She flung on her habit, and held her hand out for her
chapeau. There was none.

"Mademoiselle should recall the new riding hat had been too small, had
been returned for blocking."

"Tres bien, le vieux donc, vite!"

"Oh, mon Dieu, il fut donné." A quick blow stopped further explanation.

"Quelle que cruche, que cette fille," then a moment's silence, a roving
about of the small hot eyes, and with a bound she tore from an American