has memories—­a fact:  something which she doesn’t give to the world, generous as she is.  It is the shade to her abounding and sparkling passages of light.  Only her deep art, I dare say; but devilish pleasant and refreshing when you get tired of laughing—­gives a little repose to facial muscles.  The Trefoil has decidedly made a sensation.  At the races she was as popular as the winner.  She must have got home with a chariot full of money.  Of course, when she bet, she won—­or she didn’t pay.  A pot of money is to be made on that system:  and the women, bless ’em, how kindly they’ve taken to it!”

This kind of improving discourse employed us to my gate.  Bertram dropped me to return for “the painted lily” in an hour.

I am no squeamish man, or I should have passed a wretched life.  The man who is perpetually travelling must bear with him a pliant nature that will adapt itself to any society, to various codes of morals, habits of thought, rules of conduct, and varieties of temperament.  I can make myself at home in most places, but least in those regions which the progress of civilization, or the progress of something, has established in every capital of Europe, and to the description of which the younger Dumas has devoted his genius.  The atmosphere of the demi-monde never delighted me.  I see why it charms; I guess why it has become the potent rival of good society; the reason why men of genius, scholars, statesmen, princes, and all the great of the earth take pleasure in it, is not far to seek; silly women at home are to blame in great part.  This new state of the body social is very much to be regretted; but I am not yet of those who think that good, decent society—­the converse of honourable men with honourable women—­is come or coming to an end.  I am of the old-fashioned, who have always been better pleased and more diverted with the society of ladies than with that of the free graces who allow smoke and indulge in it, and who have wit but lack wisdom.  I was not in high glee at the prospect of accompanying Cosmo Bertram to his free dancing party.

They are all very much alike.  The fifteen sous basket, to use Dumas’ fine illustration, in Paris, is very like the Vienna, the Berlin, or the London basket.  The ladies are beautiful, exquisitely dressed, vivacious, and, early in the evening, well-mannered.  At the outset you might think yourself at your embassy; at the close you catch yourself hoping you will get away safely.  Shrill voices pipe in corners of the room. “On sautera!” People are jumping with a vengeance.  The paint is disturbed upon your partner’s face.  Pretty lips speak ugly words. Honi soit qui mal y pense; but then the gentleman is between two and three wines, and the lady is rallying him because he has sense enough left to be a little modest.  A couple sprawl in a waltz.  A gentleman roars a toast.  The hostess prays for less noise.  An altercation breaks out in the antechamber.  Two ladies exchange slaps on the face, and you thank madame for a charming evening.