Christopher Newman went to dine with him. Mr. and Mrs. Tristram lived
behind one of those chalk-colored facades which decorate with their
pompous sameness the broad avenues manufactured by Baron Haussmann in
the neighborhood of the Arc de Triomphe. Their apartment was rich in the
modern conveniences, and Tristram lost no time in calling his visitor's
attention to their principal household treasures, the gas-lamps and the
furnace-holes. "Whenever you feel homesick," he said, "you must come up
here. We'll stick you down before a register, under a good big burner,
and--"

"And you will soon get over your homesickness," said Mrs. Tristram.

Her husband stared; his wife often had a tone which he found inscrutable
he could not tell for his life whether she was in jest or in earnest.
The truth is that circumstances had done much to cultivate in Mrs.
Tristram a marked tendency to irony. Her taste on many points differed
from that of her husband, and though she made frequent concessions it
must be confessed that her concessions were not always graceful. They
were founded upon a vague project she had of some day doing something
very positive, something a trifle passionate. What she meant to do she
could by no means have told you; but meanwhile, nevertheless, she was
buying a good conscience, by installments.

It should be added, without delay, to anticipate misconception, that her
little scheme of independence did not definitely involve the assistance
of another person, of the opposite sex; she was not saving up virtue to
cover the expenses of a flirtation. For this there were various reasons.
To begin with, she had a very plain face and she was entirely without
illusions as to her appearance. She had taken its measure to a hair's
breadth, she knew the worst and the best, she had accepted herself. It