I ask myself what makes Mrs. Davis so fond of my father; and I fancy
I know the reason. My father, with his fine head of a patrician
philosopher, and his manners reminding one of the eighteenth
century, is for her a kind of _objet d'art_, and still more, a grand
intelligent mirror, in which she can admire her own beauty and
cleverness; besides, she feels grateful that he never criticises her,
and likes her very much. Upon this basis has sprung up a friendship,
or rather a kind of affection for my father which gradually has become
a necessity of her life. Moreover, Mrs. Davis has the reputation of a
coquette, and coming here to see my father every day, she says to
the world: "It is not true; this old man is seventy, and nobody can
suspect me of flirting with him, and yet I show him more attentions
than to any one else." Finally, though she herself comes from an old
family, Mr. Davis, in spite of his wealth, is a mere nobody, and their
friendship with my father strengthens their position in society. There
was a time when I asked myself whether these daily visits were not
partly for my sake--and who knows? At any rate, it is not my qualities
which attract her, nor any real feeling on her part. But she feels
that I do not believe in her, and this irritates her. I should not
wonder if she hated me, and yet would like to see me at her feet. I
might have been, for she is a splendid specimen of the human species;
I would have been, if only for the sake of the meeting eyebrows and
the Juno shoulders,--but at a price she does not feel inclined to pay.

Soon after the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Davis my father began a
philosophical discussion, which, going from one question to another,
concluded with an analysis of human feelings. Mrs. Davis made
several very shrewd remarks. From the studio we went to the terrace
overlooking our gardens. It is only the tenth of March, and here
spring is at its best. This year everything is much advanced,--fierce