While Odette continued lost in her revery, her friend rambled on at ease. Corinne Descoutures was a happy woman. Most incomplete natures feel at least something of their incompleteness, but Corinne firmly believes herself the most beautiful and intellectual woman in the world. Her forty years do not trouble her in the least. She makes up by art all that she has lost by nature. She paints, of course, and very ridiculously--that is, when she has too much white on one side, there will be far too much red on the other. Her eye-brows would be very fine, only they are never twice in the same place. She thinks her tall form is queenly; her aquiline nose, an imperial profile; her extraordinary leanness, an exquisite fragility. As to her dresses, they are the delight of those who meet her, and the perpetual mortification of her friends. Her friendship with Odette came about by mere chance. M. Descoutures is one of those amateur scientists, gentle, modest and inoffensive, who revolve around some celebrated man, in humble adoration. He had happened to become attached to Odette's father, and his wife had approved of this friendship (about the only point of agreement in their lives). The poor little man was extinguished by his wife--several inches taller than he. At first he struggled against his fate, but he soon saw that there is no use opposing a Mme. Descoutures! And, finally, just from living with her so long, he had arrived at a state of profound admiration for her. Their friends spoke of him as "Corinne's husband," and "Corinne's husband" never complained; always approved of everything, and clung closer and closer to the great Laviguerie, who appreciated him in return. He left his dignified wife alone as much as possible, and she never complained. Knowing that Laviguerie wished to retire to the quiet of the country to write a scientific book, she had offered him her villa near Carqueirannes, which explains how they all four happened to be assembled there at present. In spite of her sublime self-conceit, Corinne had to confess, at last, to herself that Odette was not paying her the least attention, and, tapping her gently on the shoulder, said: "Odette! stop dreaming, and attend to me. I see you do not agree with me, and you are wrong."