for her to acquire all these—­what a pity she had never learned to keep them!  He himself, for instance—­the most insignificant of her acquisitions—­was beginning to feel like a squeezed sponge at the mere thought of her; and it was this sense of exhaustion, of the inability to provide more, either materially or morally, which had provoked his exclamation on opening her note.  From the first days of their acquaintance her prodigality had amazed him, but he had believed it to be surpassed by the infinity of her resources.  If she exhausted old supplies she always found new ones to replace them.  When one set of people began to find her impossible, another was always beginning to find her indispensable.  Yes—­but there were limits—­there were only so many sets of people, at least in her social classification, and when she came to an end of them, what then?  Was this flight to Paris a sign that she had come to an end—­was she going to try Paris because London had failed her?  The time of year precluded such a conjecture.  Mrs. Newell’s Paris was non-existent in September.  The town was a desert of gaping trippers—­he could as soon think of her seeking social restoration at Margate.

For a moment it occurred to him that she might have to come over to replenish her wardrobe; but he knew her dates too well to dwell long on this hope.  It was in April and December that she visited the dress-makers:  before December, he had heard her explain, one got nothing but “the American fashions.”  Mrs. Newell’s scorn of all things American was somewhat illogically coupled with the determination to use her own Americanism to the utmost as a means of social advance.  She had found out long ago that, on certain lines, it paid in London to be American, and she had manufactured for herself a personality independent of geographical or social demarcations, and presenting that remarkable blend of plantation dialect, Bowery slang and hyperbolic statement, which is the British nobility’s favorite idea of an unadulterated Americanism.  Mrs. Newell, for all her talents, was not naturally either humorous or hyperbolic, and there were times when it would doubtless have been a relief to her to be as monumentally stolid as some of the persons whose dulness it was her fate to enliven.  It was perhaps the need of relaxing which had drawn her into her odd intimacy with Garnett, with whom she did not have to be either scrupulously English or artificially American, since the impression she made on him was of no more consequence than that which she produced on her footman.  Garnett was perfectly aware that he owed his success to his insignificance, but the fact affected him only as adding one more element to his knowledge of Mrs. Newell’s character.  He was as ready to sacrifice his personal vanity in such a cause as he had been, at the outset of their acquaintance, to sacrifice his professional pride to the opportunity of knowing her.