fire because the law required the landlord to heat the building only when the pipes were about to freeze; an unmarried girl must never expect her hand to be kissed, but if it is, she must never indicate that she has noticed the impropriety; at a buffet dinner the women of the household fill the gentlemen’s plates before they take any food of their own—at least chez Madame; and, astonishingly, the Comtesse considered herself a good Catholic, although she went to Mass only at Easter. Also, to send a flower arrangement is insulting because it indicates that you do not trust the recipient to be able to arrange cut flowers, but it is not as bad as writing a personal letter on a typewriter.
Now she bought new clothes, with what the Comtesse thought was typical Boston caution. A few sweaters and skirts, several silk blouses, a tailored wool coat, and one simple black dress, which she wore with the exceedingly good pearls Aunt Cornelia had given her for graduation from Emery. Each purchase was made at the shop on the Avenue Victor Hugo with the advice of Lilianne, who initiated Billy once and forever into the small company of women who totally understand the vast gulf between clothes that fit and clothes that do not fit. Slowly she explored the mysteries and significance of cut and quality. Together they went to the collections at Dior, where the directrice, husky voiced, lanky Suzanne Luling, who was a friend of Lilianne’s, gave them excellent second-row seats only five weeks after the collection had opened, as soon as the serious buyers had come and given their orders, so that there was room for mere observers. They went to other collections, chez Saint Laurent and Lanvin and Nina Ricci and Balmain and Givenchy and Chanel, the seats less good, sometimes quite bad, for impecunious comtesses are not treated with much respect in the great couture houses; however, the whispered commentary that Lilianne poured into Billy’s ear was just as canny and sharp-eyed as if they had been looking with every intention of buying.
“That number would never be for you, it is too sophisticated for anyone under thirty; that dress is too extreme—it will be démodé by next spring; now, that one will be good for three years; that suit is made of too heavy a tweed—it will bag; that coat makes one awkward; that color would make one look faded; that dress is perfection. If you were to buy only one number, that would be it.” Privately she wondered why Billy did not permit herself at least one Chanel suit. Even the fabled Bostonian practice of living on the income of the income of one’s income could surely, in Billy’s case, accommodate itself to such a small indiscretion during a year in Paris. It was a shame she did not profit by the occasion. However, the expenditure of money was not a subject that Lilianne felt she had the right to discuss with her paying guests, even so dear a one as this.
The woman of infinite sophistication and the nineteen-year-old girl often strolled together along the Rue du Faubourg-St-Honoré, analyzing and judging each object in each shopwindow as if it were one vast art gallery and they were the most discriminating of collectors. Billy absorbed Lilianne’s standards of quality. Since the Comtesse had no means to satisfy her tastes, she could afford to approve of only the very, very best and then, only after the most judicious comparisons.
It had never been a part of the Comtesse’s reception of paying guests to introduce them to suitable young men. In the first place she did not know a great many young Frenchmen and in the second place it would have added an unnecessary complication to her life. As it was, soon there would be her daughters to launch in worldly life, a prospect she dreaded, since she was not of the matchmaking disposition and they would be girls with nothing to offer but themselves and their ancient blood.
However, a temptation entered her mind as she thoughtfully surveyed the young woman
Now she bought new clothes, with what the Comtesse thought was typical Boston caution. A few sweaters and skirts, several silk blouses, a tailored wool coat, and one simple black dress, which she wore with the exceedingly good pearls Aunt Cornelia had given her for graduation from Emery. Each purchase was made at the shop on the Avenue Victor Hugo with the advice of Lilianne, who initiated Billy once and forever into the small company of women who totally understand the vast gulf between clothes that fit and clothes that do not fit. Slowly she explored the mysteries and significance of cut and quality. Together they went to the collections at Dior, where the directrice, husky voiced, lanky Suzanne Luling, who was a friend of Lilianne’s, gave them excellent second-row seats only five weeks after the collection had opened, as soon as the serious buyers had come and given their orders, so that there was room for mere observers. They went to other collections, chez Saint Laurent and Lanvin and Nina Ricci and Balmain and Givenchy and Chanel, the seats less good, sometimes quite bad, for impecunious comtesses are not treated with much respect in the great couture houses; however, the whispered commentary that Lilianne poured into Billy’s ear was just as canny and sharp-eyed as if they had been looking with every intention of buying.
“That number would never be for you, it is too sophisticated for anyone under thirty; that dress is too extreme—it will be démodé by next spring; now, that one will be good for three years; that suit is made of too heavy a tweed—it will bag; that coat makes one awkward; that color would make one look faded; that dress is perfection. If you were to buy only one number, that would be it.” Privately she wondered why Billy did not permit herself at least one Chanel suit. Even the fabled Bostonian practice of living on the income of the income of one’s income could surely, in Billy’s case, accommodate itself to such a small indiscretion during a year in Paris. It was a shame she did not profit by the occasion. However, the expenditure of money was not a subject that Lilianne felt she had the right to discuss with her paying guests, even so dear a one as this.
The woman of infinite sophistication and the nineteen-year-old girl often strolled together along the Rue du Faubourg-St-Honoré, analyzing and judging each object in each shopwindow as if it were one vast art gallery and they were the most discriminating of collectors. Billy absorbed Lilianne’s standards of quality. Since the Comtesse had no means to satisfy her tastes, she could afford to approve of only the very, very best and then, only after the most judicious comparisons.
It had never been a part of the Comtesse’s reception of paying guests to introduce them to suitable young men. In the first place she did not know a great many young Frenchmen and in the second place it would have added an unnecessary complication to her life. As it was, soon there would be her daughters to launch in worldly life, a prospect she dreaded, since she was not of the matchmaking disposition and they would be girls with nothing to offer but themselves and their ancient blood.
However, a temptation entered her mind as she thoughtfully surveyed the young woman
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