Free Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris & Mrs. Harris Goes to New York by Paul Gallico Page A

desire.’
    There was no need in him to question her as to
how
it was possible for her to fulfil such a wish. He knew from his own experience something of the nature of these special Englishwomen and simply assumed that she had been left a legacy, or had suddenly acquired a large sum of money through one of those massive and extraordinary football lotteries he was always reading about in the papers as conferring untold wealth upon British railroad porters, coal miners, or grocery assistants. But had he known just how Mrs Harris had come by the entire sum needed to satisfy her ambition he would not have been surprised either.
    They now understood one another as did old friends who had much in life behind them.
    ‘I wouldn’t let on to anyone else,’ Mrs Harris confessed from the comfort of her new-found friendship, ‘but I was frightened to death to come ’ere.’
    The old man looked at her in astonishment - ‘You? Frightened?’
    ‘Well,’ Mrs Harris confided, ‘you know the French …’
    The gentleman emitted a sigh. ‘Ah yes. I know them very well. Still there is nothing now but for you to choose the gown that you like the best. It is said the collection this spring is superb.’
    There was a stir and a rustle. A chic, expensively-dressed woman came in acolyted by two sales ladies and made for the seat beside Mrs Harris where the brown rexine handbag containing the latter’s fortune reposed momentarily.
    Mrs Harris snatched it away with an ‘Oops, dearie, sorry!’ then brushed the seat of the chair with her hand smiling cheerily said: ‘There you are now. All ready for you.’
    The woman who had close-set eyes and a too small mouth sat down with a jangle of gold bracelets, and immediately Mrs Harris felt herself enveloped in a cloud of the most delectable and intoxicating perfume. She leaned closer to the woman for a better sniff and said with sincere admiration: ‘My, you do smell good.’
    The newcomer made a testy motion of withdrawal and a line appeared between the narrow eyes. She was looking towards the door as though searching for someone.
    It would be time to begin soon. Mrs Harris felt as eager and excited as a child and mentally apostrophized herself: ‘Look at you, Ada ’Arris! Whoever would have thought you’d be sitting in the parlour at Dior’s in Paris one day, buying a dress with all the toffs? And yet ’ere you are, and noffink can stop you now—’
    But the woman next to her, the wife of a speculator, had found whom she sought - Madame Colbert, who had just emerged from the dressing rooms leading off from the stairs, and she beckoned her over, speaking sharply and loudly to her in French as she neared: ‘What do you mean by seating a vulgar creature like this next to me? I wish herremoved at once. I have a friend coming later who will occupy her chair.’
    Mme Colbert’s heart sank. She knew the woman and the breed. She bought not for love of clothes, but for the ostentation of it. Nevertheless she spent money. To temporize, Mme Colbert said: ‘I am sorry, madame, but I have no recollection of reserving this seat for a friend of yours, but I will look.’
    ‘It is not necessary to look. I told you I wished this seat for a friend. Do as I say at once. You must be out of your mind to place such a person next to me.’
    The old gentleman next to Mrs Harris was beginning to colour, the crimson rising from the neckline of his collar and spreading to his ears. His blue eyes were turning as frosty as his white fringe.
    For a moment Mme Colbert was tempted. Surely the little cleaning woman from London would understand if she explained to her that there had been an error in the reservations and the seat was taken. She would be able to see just as much from the head of the stairs. Her glance travelled to Mrs Harris sitting there in her shabby coat and preposterous hat. And the object of this contretemps, not understanding a word of the conversation, looked up at her with her sunniest and