face was a study.

'My dear friend,' she exclaimed, 'you do not imagine I would get a
dress made in this stupid little hole of a town. They make bags here,
not gowns.' And she almost looked indignant, the dear! at the idea that
I could suppose she had not her dresses made in Paris. I smiled, and
said nothing.

And, as I looked at the book-shelves in her boudoir, I saw 'L'Imitation
de Jesus-Christ.' The volume next to it was 'Les Secrets du Cabinet de
Toilette.' I could not help making a little sarcastic remark to my dear
old friend.

'Well, _mon cher ami_,' she said, 'do you think the _bon Dieu_ would
give me a better reception if I presented myself with a face covered
with wrinkles? By the way, what is that stuff they make in England
which you told me is so good for the skin?'

Those little contradictions in a good and delightful woman make her
lovable. So I think, at any rate.

The woman I love is the woman who possesses all the womanly virtues and
qualities--sweetness, devotion, reliability. The little failings I
forgive in her are those of her sex--frivolity and the divine right of
changing her mind. If in any way woman apes man, she is intolerable and
hateful.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMEN IN THE WORLD

The Irish, Hungarian and Spanish women--The beauty of the English
and French women--The redeeming feature of every American woman.

If I were asked to name the spots of the earth where my eyes had the
privilege of beholding the most beautiful specimens of womanhood, I
think I would name the streets of Buda-Pesth and the drawing-rooms of
Ireland. If, on the other hand, I were asked to say whether there is
not, perchance, a spot of the earth where no woman is absolutely,
helplessly plain, where she always has a redeeming feature to speak in
her favour, I would unhesitatingly answer: 'Yes, the United States of
America; for in that country, let a woman have as unpleasant a face as
possible, as bad a figure as "they make them," there is an air of
independence, a deliberate gait, a pair of intelligent eyes, that will
go a long way towards making you forget or overlook the shortcomings of
the body.'

On the whole, I think the Hungarian women are the most beautiful in the
world. They have the faces of Madonnas and the figures of Greek
statues; both Raphael and Phidias would have chosen them for models.
They are not languishing, diaphanous creatures; they are the embodiment
of health