y.

Longmore watched him as he went, renewing the curl of his main facial
feature--watched him with an irritation devoid of any mentionable
ground. His one pretext for gnashing his teeth would have been in his
apprehension that this gentleman's worst English might prove a matter to
shame his own best French. For reasons involved apparently in the very
structure of his being Longmore found a colloquial use of that idiom
as insecure as the back of a restive horse, and was obliged to take his
exercise, as he was aware, with more tension than grace. He reflected
meanwhile with comfort that Madame de Mauves and he had a common tongue,
and his anxiety yielded to his relief at finding on his table that
evening a letter from Mrs. Draper. It enclosed a short formal missive to
Madame de Mauves, but the epistle itself was copious and confidential.
She had deferred writing till she reached London, where for a week, of
course, she had found other amusements.

"I think it's the sight of so many women here who don't look at all like
her that has reminded me by the law of contraries of my charming friend
at Saint-Germain and my promise to introduce you to her," she wrote.
"I believe I spoke to you of her rather blighted state, and I wondered
afterwards whether I hadn't been guilty of a breach of confidence. But
you would certainly have arrived at guesses of your own, and, besides,
she has never told me her secrets. The only one she ever pretended to
was that she's the happiest creature in the world, after assuring me
of which, poor thing, she went off into tears; so that I prayed to be
delivered from such happiness. It's the miserable story of an American
girl born neither to submit basely nor to rebel crookedly marrying a
shining sinful Frenchman who believes a woman must do one or the other
of those things. The lightest of US have a ballast that they can't
imagine, and the poorest a moral imagination that they don't require.
She was romantic and perverse--she thought the world she had been
brought up in too vulgar or at least too prosaic. To have a decent
home-life isn't perhaps the greatest of adventures; but I think she
wishes nowadays she hadn't gone in quite so desperately for thrills. M.
de Mauves cared of course for nothing but her money, which he's spending
royally on his menus plaisirs. I hope you appreciate the compliment
I pay you when I recommend you to go and cheer up a lady domestically
dejected. Believe me, I've given