Chapter I

In a room in a palatial tenement house in Avenue D, stood GILBERT FERNANDE FROU FROU SNOGGS. G.F.F.F.S. was rampant.

"Why?" you say.

Gentle reader, hurry me not. Let the tale wag on. She was talking to her mamma.

"Now," said G.F.F.F.S., "I prognosticated that my maternal relative would become oblivions of my reiterated solicitations to perambulate the Avenue, and make the acquisition of four yards of cerulean hued ribbon," and she stamped her tiny number eights on the floor.

You will notice that, even in her anger, she did not forget her English.

"You can purchase it on the morrow," replied her mamma.

"I will not remain acquiescent. I will promenade upon my profluence to Sixth Avenue, and purchase the ceruleous ribbon immediately," said G.F.F.F.S., putting on her waterproof and sun-bonnet.

Her mother pointed to the paternal turnip, which hung over the mantel, and showed her that old Time was "doing stunts" at 10-1/2.

But G.F.F.F.S. was obstinate. She put on her chignon, her curls, her breast elevator, her bustle, her high-heeled shoes, a little rouge, a little whiting and a bit of court-plaster, and sallied forth, down the dumb-waiter to the cellar, and thence, through the ash-hole, to the street.