"In saying that HE would not look at her twice, my husband sufficiently
describes her," Mrs. Tristram rejoined.

"Is she good; is she clever?" Newman asked.

"She is perfect! I won't say more than that. When you are praising
a person to another who is to know her, it is bad policy to go into
details. I won't exaggerate. I simply recommend her. Among all women I
have known she stands alone; she is of a different clay."

"I should like to see her," said Newman, simply.

"I will try to manage it. The only way will be to invite her to dinner.
I have never invited her before, and I don't know that she will come.
Her old feudal countess of a mother rules the family with an iron hand,
and allows her to have no friends but of her own choosing, and to visit
only in a certain sacred circle. But I can at least ask her."

At this moment Mrs. Tristram was interrupted; a servant stepped out upon
the balcony and announced that there were visitors in the drawing-room.
When Newman's hostess had gone in to receive her friends, Tom Tristram
approached his guest.

"Don't put your foot into THIS, my boy," he said, puffing the last
whiffs of his cigar. "There's nothing in it!"

Newman looked askance at him, inquisitive. "You tell another story, eh?"

"I say simply that Madame de Cintre is a great white doll of a woman,
who cultivates quiet haughtiness."