_Seven hundred francs_! Virginia's national pride, or, more
accurately, her national rage, was lashed into action. It was with
very red cheeks that the small American stepped stormily to the
rescue of her countryman.

"Seven hundred francs for _that_?" she jeered, right in the
face of the enraged manager and stiffening clerks. "Seven hundred
francs--indeed! Last year's model--a hideous colour, and "--picking
it up, running it through her fingers and tossing it contemptuously
aside--"abominable stuff!"

"Gee, but I'm grateful to you!" he breathed, again wiping his brow.
"You know, I was a little leery of it myself."

The manager, quivering with rage and glaring uglily, stepped up to
Virginia. "May I ask--?"

But the fat man stepped in between--he was well qualified for that
position. "Cut it out, partner. The young lady's a friend of
_mine_--see? She's looking out for me--not you. I don't want
your stuff, anyway." And taking Virginia serenely by the arm he
walked away.

"This was no place to buy dresses," said she crossly.

"Well, I wish I knew where the places _were_ to buy things," he
replied, humbly, forlornly.

"Well, what do you want to buy?" demanded she, still crossly.