So did her pretty green shawl, pinned closely at the throat and worn as only a French-woman would have known how to wear it.

So did the white camellia and the moss-rose buds which she had taken out of my bouquet, and fastened at her waist.
What I was not prepared for, however, was her cap.

I had forgotten that your Parisian grisette[1] would no more dream of wearing a bonnet than of crowning her head with feathers and adorning her countenance with war-paint.

It had totally escaped me that I, a bashful Englishman of twenty-one, nervously sensitive to ridicule and gifted by nature with but little of the spirit of social defiance, must in broad daylight make my appearance in the streets of Paris, accompanied by a bonnetless grisette! What should I do, if I met Dr.Cheron?
or Madame de Courcelles?
or, worse than all, Madame de Marignan?
My obvious resource was to take her in whatever direction we should be least likely to meet any of my acquaintances.

Where, oh fate! might that obscurity be found which had suddenly become the dearest object of my desires?
[1] The grisette of twenty years ago, _bien entendu_.