Mrs. Newbold answered with a little laugh: "I think I told you in my letter of the three varieties of graces--a specimen of each--I have prepared for you? Here they are by name, and ticketed with the attributes they pose for, and fondly imagine they possess. A clever girl from Boston of course, Rosalie James--small and dark, and critical--reads all the newest books with the most jaw-breaking names, goes in for all the 'ologies' and 'isms,' the later the better; likes to think herself a disciple of the most advanced agnostic cult, is nothing if not cultured, and pins her artistic canons to those of Burne Jones and Walter Crane; is a working member of the Sorosis Club, the Nineteenth Century, and every other woman's club in the Union; writes for the magazines, and always has an æsthetic novel on the stocks, which never is launched. How do you like this style, Philip?" "Honestly, not at all," answered Tremain, echoing her thrill of laughter; "from the woman of brains defend me! What have you next to show me?" "Ah well, she's not so bad as she sounds," said Mrs. Newbold, "I've known her do a great many kind things; and after all it's not her fault, you know, if like the little boy in _Punch_ she fails to take interest in any event subsequent to the Conqueror. And now to number two, my pretty girl, Baby Leonard, and a very pretty girl she is, in a slow, superb Juno-like fashion. I don't _know_ of my own knowledge that she ever shows greater animation than a languid yes, or no, implies; but if you feel a very keen desire to read beneath the tranquillity of her manner, go to Jack Howard for information, she is his latest victim, and he may have touched the depths of even her shallow soul." "Thank you," returned Tremain, "I do not feel _my_ soul intensely drawn by occult forces--isn't that the correct jargon?--towards that of Miss Leonard; let us allow Jack full innings there." "Ah, you are very hard to please," cried Mrs. Newbold in pretended petulance. "Now this is really my last and only remaining girl; in my heart of hearts I think she is worth the other two, in spite of her always handicapping herself; enter then Dick Darling, and shouldn't you know by the sound of her name that she is a girl of the period? Pretty? Oh, yes, but more fascinating than pretty; has a brown face, and laughing eyes, and turned-up nose, uses all the latest slang, wears a hard hat, a cut-away jacket, a Stanley necktie, and eye-glass and chain, and carries the slenderest of walking-sticks, smokes her own cigarettes, drinks Bass's ale, and plays a rattling good game at poker; and despite all her mannish affectations, has the best heart in the world. She rides like a bird, pulls an oar with the best, and can give as ugly a twister at tennis as you could wish to see. Now is she more to your liking?" Mr. Tremain shrugged his shoulders.