“French by her father, English by her mother.  She is really more English than French, and she speaks English as well as you or I—­or rather much better.  She belongs to the very top of the basket, as they say here.  Her family, on each side, is of fabulous antiquity; her mother is the daughter of an English Catholic earl.  Her father is dead, and since her widowhood she has lived with her mother and a married brother.  There is another brother, younger, who I believe is wild.  They have an old hotel in the Rue de l’Universite, but their fortune is small, and they make a common household, for economy’s sake.  When I was a girl I was put into a convent here for my education, while my father made the tour of Europe.  It was a silly thing to do with me, but it had the advantage that it made me acquainted with Claire de Bellegarde.  She was younger than I but we became fast friends.  I took a tremendous fancy to her, and she returned my passion as far as she could.  They kept such a tight rein on her that she could do very little, and when I left the convent she had to give me up.  I was not of her monde; I am not now, either, but we sometimes meet.  They are terrible people—­her monde; all mounted upon stilts a mile high, and with pedigrees long in proportion.  It is the skim of the milk of the old noblesse.  Do you know what a Legitimist is, or an Ultramontane?  Go into Madame de Cintre’s drawing-room some afternoon, at five o’clock, and you will see the best preserved specimens.  I say go, but no one is admitted who can’t show his fifty quarterings.”

“And this is the lady you propose to me to marry?” asked Newman.  “A lady I can’t even approach?”

“But you said just now that you recognized no obstacles.”

Newman looked at Mrs. Tristram a while, stroking his mustache.  “Is she a beauty?” he demanded.

“No.”

“Oh, then it’s no use—­”

“She is not a beauty, but she is beautiful, two very different things.  A beauty has no faults in her face, the face of a beautiful woman may have faults that only deepen its charm.”

“I remember Madame de Cintre, now,” said Tristram.  “She is as plain as a pike-staff.  A man wouldn’t look at her twice.”

“In saying that he would not look at her twice, my husband sufficiently describes her,” Mrs. Tristram rejoined.

“Is she good; is she clever?” Newman asked.

“She is perfect!  I won’t say more than that.  When you are praising a person to another who is to know her, it is bad policy to go into details.  I won’t exaggerate.  I simply recommend her.  Among all women I have known she stands alone; she is of a different clay.”

“I should like to see her,” said Newman, simply.

“I will try to manage it.  The only way will be to invite her to dinner.  I have never invited her before, and I don’t know that she will come.  Her old feudal countess of a mother rules the family with an iron hand, and allows her to have no friends but of her own choosing, and to visit only in a certain sacred circle.  But I can at least ask her.”