"Very well," she replied, "I'll drop you there. I have to go down to
the Rue de la Paix."
"To the couturiere, of course?"
"Yes," she said, with that merry twinkle in her dark eyes, "you've
guessed it the first time. It's a charming gown; but I know father will
pull a wry face when he finds the bill on his table."
"But you can stand any amount of wry faces as long as you get pretty
dresses, can't you?" I laughed, handing her into the carriage and
taking a seat beside her.
Then she opened her sunshade and lolled back with an air of indolence
and luxury as we drove along together.