They stayed away much longer than they had intended, having been enticed into going to Malta by some American acquaintances, and when they got back to Paris hundreds of interesting things seemed to have happened in their absence, and a great many people and events were being talked about of which they knew nothing. But the wife of the American minister, who was an old friend, went to see Mrs. Stanhope immediately to invite her to an informal dinner the next evening, and stayed the entire afternoon, telling her of everything that had happened and who all the new people were--the New American Beauty for instance. She could not believe that her friend had not heard of nor seen _the_ New Beauty. “Why, haven’t you ever seen her pictures--and the notices of her?” Mrs. Stanhope was slightly aggrieved. She knew absolutely nothing about her. “And I am completely astonished that they aren’t talking of her at Cannes.” Mrs. Stanhope reminded her friend that she had been immured at Malta since leaving the Riviera. “Oh, well, of course her fame has reached there by this time. Why, all Paris is talking about her--and you know yourself”--observed that astute lady, impressively--“how much it takes to make Paris stop and look at you.” Mrs. Stanhope said “Yes,” and wanted to know who The Beauty’s people were, and where she had come from. “Oh, I don’t know,” declared her friend. “No one seems to inquire. She is so beautiful and sufficient in herself that one does not care much for the rest. They are immensely rich--recently, I believe--though you would never know it from her manner. She is charming and thoroughly well-bred. Her father, I hear, is a typical American business man--not much _en évidence_, you know. He leaves that to his daughter, and she does it very well. He is a Senator--or something--from the West, and made such a name for himself at Washington that they thought he was too bright to stay there, so they sent him over here to help settle that international treaty affair--you know perhaps--I don’t, I only pretend to.” “How did she do it?” demanded Mrs. Stanhope, in that simply comprehensive way women have when talking about another woman. “Oh, she just started right in. Courtelais raved over her, and her father paid him twenty thousand dollars to have her painted. The Colony took her up, and the rest just followed naturally. The portrait is really charming, though she was dressed--well, I don’t think any French girl would have sat in that costume.” “Is she really so beautiful?”