When the mourning was over and she returned to London she was a woman
who had progressed, but whether upon an upward or a downward path who
shall decide? She had certainly become more fascinating. Her beauty was
at its height. The year in Paris, lived almost wholly among clever and
very unprejudiced French people, had given her a peculiar polish--one
Frenchman who knew English slang called it "a shine"--which made her
stand out among her English contemporaries. Many of them when girls had
received a "finish" in Paris. But girls cannot go about as she had gone
about. They had learnt French; she had learnt Paris. From that
time onward she was probably the most truly cosmopolitan of all the
aristocratic Englishwomen of her day. Distinguished foreigners who
visited London generally paid their first private call on her. Her house
was European rather than English. She kept, too, her apartment in Paris,
and lived there almost as much as she lived in London. And, perhaps, her
secret wildness was more at home there.

Scandal, of course, could not leave her untouched. But her position in
society was never challenged. People said dreadful things about her, but
everyone who did not know her wanted to know her, and no one who knew
her wished not to know her. She "stood out" from all the other women in
England of her day, not merely because of her beauty--she was not more
beautiful than several of her contemporaries--but because of her gay
distinction, a daring which was never, which could not be, ill bred,
her extraordinary lack of all affectation, and a peculiar and delightful
bonhomie which made her at home with everyone and everyone at home with
her. Servants and dependents loved her. Everyone about her was fond of
her. And yet she was certainly selfish. Invariably almost she was kind
to people, but herself came first with her. She made few sacrifices,
and many sacrificed themselves to her. There was seldom a moment when