dead hair, and even false bosoms? Death?—Well, no doubt there is death, but they do not realise it; they hardly believe in it, they think about it so little.
There is something unknown somewhere to fall on them some day that they dread vaguely, for they are terrible cowards. But they worry as little about it as possible. They give the millionth part of what they possess away in its name to whatever church they belong to, and they think they have arranged quite comfortably for all possible contingencies hereafter.
If it make things safe, they will head bazaars for the poor, or wear black in holy week, turn lottery-wheels for charity, or put on fancy dresses in the name of benevolence, or do any little amiable trifle of that sort. But as for changing their lives,—pas si bête!
A bird in the hand they hold worth two in the bush; and though your birds may be winged on strong desire, and your bush the burning parterre of Moses, they will have none of them.
These women are not all bad; oh, no! they are like sheep, that is all. If it were fashionable to
