as expensive.
Her dresses cost as much as if purchased on Fifth Avenue and I am
obliged to pay a sixty per cent duty on them besides.

The restaurants of Paris--the chic ones--charge as much as those in New
York; in fact, chic Paris exists very largely for the exploitation of
the wives of rich Americans. The smart French woman buys no such dresses
and pays no such prices. She knows a clever little modiste down some
alley leading off the Rue St. Honore who will saunter into Worth's,
sweep the group of models with her eye, and go back to her own shop and
turn out the latest fashions at a quarter of the money.

A French woman in society will have the same dress made for her by her
own dressmaker for seventy dollars for which an American will cheerfully
pay three hundred and fifty. And the reason is, that she has been
taught from girlhood the relative values of things. She knows that mere
clothes can never really take the place of charm and breeding; that
expensive entertainments, no matter how costly and choice the viands,
can never give equal pleasure with a cup of tea served with vivacity and
wit; and that the best things of Paris are, in fact, free to all
alike--the sunshine of the boulevards, the ever-changing spectacle of
the crowds, the glamour of the evening glow beyond the Hotel des
Invalides, and the lure of the lamp-strewn twilight of the Champs
Elysees.

So she gets a new dress or two and, after the three months of her season
in the Capital are over, is content to lead a more or less simple family
life in the country for the rest of the year. One rarely sees a real
Parisian at one of the highly advertised all-night resorts of Paris. No
Frenchman would pay the price.

An acquaintance of mine took his wife and a couple of friends one
evening to what is known as L'Abbaye, in Montmartre. Knowing that it had
a reputation for being expensive, he resisted, somewhat
self-consciously, the delicate suggestions of the head waiter and
ordered only one bottle of champagne, caviar for four, and a couple of
cigars. After watching the dancing for an hour he called for his bill
and found that the amount was two hundred and fifty francs. Rather than
be conspicuous he paid it--foolishly. But the American who takes his
wife abroad must have at least one vicarious taste of fast life, no
matter what it costs, and he is a lucky fellow who can save anything out
of a bill of exchange that has cost him five thousand dollars.

After