“I want to be a New York society woman to my finger-tips,” she exclaims, sitting forward in her chair; “that is, I want to be _au fait_ in every particular. I would not for the world be looked upon as an alien; but at the same time I want to be a distinctive figure in it. I want to be aggressively _myself_. The New York girl is of so marked a type, Aunt Frances, that you would know one if you met her in a Greek bandit’s cave. She is unlike anything else on the face of the earth. You cross the river to Brooklyn, you travel an hour and a half to Philadelphia, you do not see a woman who faintly resembles her unless she has been imported direct. The New York girl was never included in the scheme of creation. When the combined forces of a new civilization and the seven-leagued stride of democracy made her a necessity, Nature fashioned a mold differing in shape and tint from all others in her storehouse, and cast her in it. It is locked up in a chest and kept for her exclusive use. The mold is made of ivory, and the shape is long and straight and exceeding slim. There is a slight roundness about the bust, and a general neatness and trimness which are independent of attire. And each looks carefully fed and thoroughly groomed. Each has brightness in her eye and elasticity in her step. And through the cheek of each the blood flows in exactly the same red current about a little white island. Now all this is very charming, but then she lacks—just a little—individuality. And I _must_ have my distinctive personality. There seems nothing left but to be eccentric. Tell me what line to take.” Mrs. Dykman, who has been listening with a slight frown on her brow and a smile on her lips, replies in her low, measured accents, which a cataclysm could not accelerate nor sharpen: “My dear, before I answer your amusing tirade, let me once more endeavor to impress you with the importance of repose. You may be as beautiful and as original as your brains and will can make you, but without repose of manner you will be like an unfinished impressionist daub. Few American women have it unless they have lived in England; but I want you to take coals to Newcastle when you make your début in London society.