ll by his cocked hat and
brass buttons and the brass chain across his chest that it was the
Ambassador. The way in which he swung the door back and removed his hat
showed him a trained diplomat.

The moment had come. I still held my ten cents.

"My lord," I said, "I understand your position as the only man in Paris
who must not accept a tip, but I insist."

I slipped the money into his hand.

"Thank'ee kindly, sir," said the Ambassador.

Diplomatically speaking, the incident was closed.

_III.--The Simple Life in Paris_

PARIS--at least the Paris of luxury and fashion--is a childless city.
Its streets are thronged all day with a crowd that passes in endless
succession but with never a child among them. You may stand on the
boulevards and count a thousand grown-up persons for one child that goes
by.

The case, of course, is not so extreme in the quieter parts of the city.
I have seen children, sometimes two or three together, in the Champs
Elysees. In the garden of the Tuileries I once saw six all in a group.
They seemed to be playing. A passer-by succeeded in getting a snapshot
of them without driving them away. In the poorer districts, there are
any quantity of children, even enough to sell, but in the Paris of the
rich, the child is conspicuous by its absence. The foreign visitors come
without their children. The true Parisian lady has pretty well gone out
of the business.

Here and there you may see driving past with its mother in an open
barouche, or parading the Rue de la Paix on the hand of its nurse, the
doll-like substitute for old-time infancy, the fashionable Parisian
child. As far as the sex can be determined by looking at it, it is
generally a girl. It is dressed in the height of fashion. A huge picture
hat reaches out in all directions from its head. Long gloves encase its
little arms to prevent it from making a free use of them. A dainty coat
of powder on its face preserves it from the distorting effect of a
smile. Its little hundred dollar frock reaches down in a sweet
simplicity of outline. It has a belt that runs round its thighs to
divide it into two harmonious parts. Below that are bare pink legs
ending in little silk socks at a dollar an inch and wee slippers clasped
with a simple emerald buckle. Therein, of course, the child only obeys
the reigning fashion. Simplicity,--so I am informed by the last number
of _La Mode Parisienne_,--is the dominant note of Parisian dress
to-day,--s