Then this was my first type to begin on, of our French society world.
Were they all like her? I watched the ladies and gentlemen who stood and
sat chatting about, and saw that everyone else too made an art of
charming. Grace also. She frequently passed, and I could catch her
silvery French sentences and cheerful laugh.

As a partner now took away my little Southern friend, I caught Chinic on
the wing, got introduced once more, and found myself careering in a
galop down the room with a large-looking girl--Mlle. Sylphe--whose
activity was out of proportion to her figure, though in more harmony
with her name. Her build was commanding, she was of dark complexion and
hair, in manner demure, alluring with great power by the instrumentality
of lustrous eyes, though secretly, I felt, like the tigress itself in
cruelty to her victims. She was a magnificent figure, and gave me a
merry dance. After it, she set about explaining the meaning of her
garland decorations and the language of flowers, the Convent school at
Sault-au-Recollet, dinner parties, and the young men of her
acquaintance.

"You seem very fond of society?" I advanced.

"I adore society--it is my dream. I waltz, you see. I know it is wrong,
and the church forbids it; but--I do not dance in Lent. After all,"
shrugging her shoulders, "we can confess, you know, and when we are old
it will suffice to repent and be devout. I shall begin to be excessively
devout," (toying with a jet cross on her necklace)--"the day I find my
first grey hair."

"You have then a number of years to waltz."