ted to laugh), under a lovely hat, my arms crossed. Would you
believe it? Not a single smile was thrown at me, not one poor youth was
struck motionless as I passed, not a soul turned to look again; and yet
the carriage proceeded with a deliberation worthy of my pose.

No, I am wrong, there was one--a duke, and a charming man--who suddenly
reined in as we went by. The individual who thus saved appearances for
me was my father, and he proclaimed himself highly gratified by what he
saw. I met my mother also, who sent me a butterfly kiss from the tips
of her fingers. The worthy Griffith, who fears no man, cast her glances
hither and thither without discrimination. In my judgment, a young woman
should always know exactly what her eye is resting on.

I was mad with rage. One man actually inspected my carriage without
noticing me. This flattering homage probably came from a carriage-maker.
I have been quite out in the reckoning of my forces. Plainly, beauty,
that rare gift which comes from heaven, is commoner in Paris than I
thought. I saw hats doffed with deference to simpering fools; a purple
face called forth murmurs of, "It is she!" My mother received an immense
amount of admiration. There is an answer to this problem, and I mean to
find it.

The men, my dear, seemed to me generally very ugly. The very few
exceptions are bad copies of us. Heaven knows what evil genius has
inspired their costume; it is amazingly inelegant compared with those
of former generations. It has no distinction, no beauty of color or
romance; it appeals neither to the senses, nor the mind, nor the eye,
and it must be very uncomfortable. It is meagre and stunted. The hat,
above all, struck me; it is a sort of truncated column, and does not
adapt itself in the least to the shape of the head; but I am told it
is easier to bring about a revolution than to invent a graceful hat.
Courage in Paris recoils before the thought of appearing in a round
felt; and for lack of one day's daring, men stick all their lives to
this ridiculous headpiece. And yet Frenchmen are said to be fickle!

The men are hideous anyway, whatever they put on their heads. I have
seen nothing but worn, hard faces, with no calm nor peace in the
expression; the harsh lines and furrows speak of foiled ambition and
smarting vanity. A fine forehead is rarely seen.

"And these are the product of Paris!" I said to Miss Griffith.

"Most cultivated and pleasant men," she replied.

I was