naissance. I very seldom take part in these conversations because
I do not believe in Mrs. Davis' sincerity. It seems to me that her
intellect is merely a matter of brain, and not of soul, and that in
reality she does not care for anything except her beauty and the
comforts of life. I have often met women who seem full of lofty
aspiration; upon closer acquaintance it seems that religion,
philosophy, art, and literature, are only so many items of their
toilet. They dress themselves in either as it suits their style of
beauty. I suppose it is the same with Mrs. Davis; she drapes herself
in problems of life, sometimes in Greek and Roman antiquities, in the
Divina Commedia, or the Renaissance, the churches, museums, and so
forth. I can understand a powerful intellectual organism making itself
the centre of the universe; but in a woman, and one who is bent upon
futile things, it is mere laughable egoism and vanity.

I ask myself what makes Mrs. Davis so fond of my father; and I fancy
I know the reason. My father, with his fine head of a patrician
philosopher, and his manners reminding one of the eighteenth
century, is for her a kind of _objet d'art_, and still more, a grand
intelligent mirror, in which she can admire her own beauty and
cleverness; besides, she feels grateful that he never criticises her,
and likes her very much. Upon this basis has sprung up a friendship,
or rather a kind of affection for my father which gradually has become
a necessity of her life. Moreover, Mrs. Davis has the reputation of a
coquette, and coming here to see my father every day, she says to
the world: "It is not true; this old man is seventy, and nobody can
suspect me of flirting with him, and yet I show him more attentions
than to any one else." Finally, though she herself comes from an old
family, Mr. Davis, in spite of his wealth, is a mere nobody, and their
friendship with my father strengthens their position in society. There
was a time when I asked myself whether these daily visits were not
partly for my sake--and who knows? At any rate, it is not my qualities
which attract her, nor any real feeling on her part. But she feels
that I do not believe in her, and this irritates her. I should not
wonder if she hated me, and yet would like to see me at her feet. I
might have been, for she is a splendid specimen of the human species;
I would have been, if only for the sake of the meeting eyebrows and
the Juno shoulders,--but at a price she d