"I know when I am in the presence of an artist and his work. Louis
Trudel had rule and measure, shears and a needle. Our friend here has
eye and head, sense of form and creative gift. Ah, Cure, Cure, if I were
twenty-five, with the assistance of Monsieur, I would show the bucks in
Fabrique Street how to dress. What style is this called, Monsieur?" he
suddenly asked, pointing to the drawing.

"Style a la Rossignol, Seigneur," said the tailor.

The Seigneur was flattered out of all reason. He looked across at the
post-office, where he could see Rosalie dimly moving in the shade of the
shop.

"Ah, if I had but ordered this coat sooner!" he said regretfully.
He was thinking that to-morrow was Michaelmas day, when he was to ask
Rosalie for her answer again, and he fancied himself appearing before
her in the gentle cool of the evening, in this coat, lightly thrown back,
disclosing his embroidered waistcoat, seals, and snowy linen. "Monsieur,
I am highly complimented, believe me," he said. "Observe, Cure, that
this coat is invented for me on the spot."

The Cure nodded appreciatively. "Wonderful! Wonderful! But do you
not think," he added, a little wistfully--for, was he not a Frenchman,
susceptible like all his race to the appearance of things?--"do you not
think it might be too fashionable for me?"

"Not a whit--not a whit," replied the Seigneur generously. "Should not a
Cure look distinguished--be dignified? Consider the length, the line,
the eloquence of design! Ah, Monsieur, once again, you are an artist!