beautiful forms while concealing them. How does she do it? This secret
she keeps, though unguarded by any patent.

"As she walks she gives herself a little concentric and harmonious
twist, which makes her supple or dangerous slenderness writhe under
the stuff, as a snake does under the green gauze of trembling grass.
Is it to an angel or a devil that she owes the graceful undulation
which plays under her long black silk cape, stirs its lace frill,
sheds an airy balm, and what I should like to call the breeze of a
Parisienne? You may recognize over her arms, round her waist, about
her throat, a science of drapery recalling the antique Mnemosyne.

"Oh! how thoroughly she understands the _cut_ of her gait--forgive the
expression. Study the way she puts her foot forward moulding her skirt
with such a decent preciseness that the passer-by is filled with
admiration, mingled with desire, but subdued by deep respect. When an
Englishwoman attempts this step, she looks like a grenadier marching
forward to attack a redoubt. The women of Paris have a genius for
walking. The municipality really owed them asphalt footwalks.

"Our Unknown jostles no one. If she wants to pass, she waits with
proud humility till some one makes way. The distinction peculiar to a
well-bred woman betrays itself, especially in the way she holds her
shawl or cloak crossed over her bosom. Even as she walks she has a
little air of serene dignity, like Raphael's Madonnas in their frames.
Her aspect, at once quiet and disdainful, makes the most insolent
dandy step aside for her.

"Her bonnet, remarkable for its simplicity, is trimmed with crisp
ribbons; there may be flowers in it, but the cleverest of such women