Read Online Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris & Mrs. Harris Goes to New York by Paul Gallico - Free Book Online Page B

chattering females waiting to view the collection that day.
    ‘No,’ she said to Mrs Harris. ‘Not on the staircase. I will not have it. Come. I have a seat for you inside.’
    She threaded Mrs Harris through the throng, holding her by the hand, and took her into the main salon where all but two of the gold chairs in the double rows were occupied. Mme Colbert always kept one or two seats in reserve for the possible unexpected arrival of some V.I.P., or a favoured customer bringing a friend.
    She towed Mrs Harris across the floor and seated her on a vacant chair in the front row. ‘There,’ said Mme Colbert ‘You will be able to see everything from here. Have you your invitation? Here is a little pencil. When the models enter, the girl at the door will call out the name and number of the dress - in English. Write down the numbers of the ones you like best, and I will see you afterwards.’
    Mrs Harris settled herself noisily and comfortably on the grey and gold chair. Her handbag she parked on the vacant seat at her left, the card and pencil she prepared for action. Then with a pleased and happy smile she began taking stock of her neighbours.
    Although she had no means of identifying them, the main salon contained a cross-section of the
haut monde
of the world, including a scattering of the nobility, ladies and honorables from England, marquises and countesses from France, baronesses from Germany, principessas from Italy, new-rich wives of French industrialists, veteran-rich wives of South American millionaires, buyers from New York, Los Angeles, and Dallas, stage actresses, film stars, playwrights, playboys, diplomats, etc.
    The seat to Mrs Harris’s right was occupied by a fierce-looking old gentleman with snow-white hair and moustaches,tufted eyebrows that stood out like feathers from his face, and dark pouches under his eyes which were, however, of a penetrating blue and astonishingly alert and young looking. His hair was combed down over his brow in a sort of fringe; his boots were magnificently polished; his waistcoat was edged with white, and in the lapel of his dark jacket was fastened what seemed to Mrs Harris to be a small rosebud which both fascinated and startled her, since she had never seen a gentleman wearing any such thing before and so she was caught by him staring at it.
    The thin, beak nose aimed itself at her; the keen blue eyes scrutinised her, but the voice that addressed her in perfect English was sere and tired. ‘Is there something wrong, madam?’
    It was not in the nature of Mrs Harris to be abashed or put out of countenance by anyone, but the thought that she might have been rude stirred her to contrition and she favoured the old gentleman with a self-deprecating smile.
    ‘Fancy me gawking at you like you was a waxworks,’ she apologised, ‘where’s me manners? I thought that was a rose in yer buttonhole. Jolly good idea too.’ Then in explanation she added - ‘I’m very fond of flowers.’
    ‘Are you,’ said the gentleman. ‘That is good.’ Whatever hostility had been engendered by her stare was dispelled by the engaging innocence of her reply. He looked upon his neighbour with a new interest and saw now that she was a most extraordinary creature and one he could not immediately place. ‘Perhaps,’ he added, ‘it would be better if this were indeed a rose instead of a - rosette.’
    Mrs Harris did not understand this remark at all, but the pleasant manner in which it had been delivered showed her that she had been forgiven for her rudeness and thetiny shadow that had fallen across her mood was dispelled. ‘Ain’t it loverly ’ere?’ she said by way of keeping the conversation going.
    ‘Ah, you feel the atmosphere too.’ Puzzled, the old gentleman was racking his brain, trying to catch or connect with something that was stirring there, something that seemed to be connected vaguely with his youth and his education which had been rounded out by two years at an English