"They are very common," Mrs. Costello declared. "They are the sort
of Americans that one does one's duty by not--not accepting."

"Ah, you don't accept them?" said the young man.

"I can't, my dear Frederick. I would if I could, but I can't."

"The young girl is very pretty," said Winterbourne in a moment.

"Of course she's pretty. But she is very common."

"I see what you mean, of course," said Winterbourne after another pause.

"She has that charming look that they all have," his aunt resumed.
"I can't think where they pick it up; and she dresses
in perfection--no, you don't know how well she dresses.
I can't think where they get their taste."

"But, my dear aunt, she is not, after all, a Comanche savage."

"She is a young lady," said Mrs. Costello, "who has an intimacy
with her mamma's courier."

"An intimacy with the courier?" the young man demanded.

"Oh, the mother is just as bad! They treat the courier
like a familiar friend--like a gentleman. I shouldn't wonder
if he dines with them. Very likely they have never seen a man
with such good manners, such fine clothes, so like a gentleman.
He probably corresponds to the young lady's idea of a count.