“I always thought that it appeared better at a distance,” said Martha. “So it does, in a way; but the impression is different. I love it from the Place de la Concorde, when the horse-chestnuts are in bloom. Then it looks like a magnificent image of beneficence, stretching out two great arms to take in all those people, in carriages and on foot, who are thronging the Champs-Élysées, its body vague and distant in the clouds. That’s a sufficiently fantastic thought for you, if you like; but it is one that has comforted me. I love Paris. It is the only city that has ever seemed to me to be lovable. Its streets are so gay and clean, and the faces of the people one meets, along here at least, are so good-humored and intelligent. I love this mixture of fashion and ruralness. Look at the swells and the peasants driving side by side! Look at those white-aproned men drawing handcarts, that mail-coach coming alongside, those old peasants in their covered wagons, and that superb mounted policeman with his gorgeous trappings! How friendly and at home they all seem! Even that omnibus, with its three white Percherons abreast, looks sociable and friendly by the side of the _steppeurs_ of the _haute école_. Oh, it’s all very human and charming; or is it that you humanize me, and make me feel its charm more than I have done for many a day?” She was still in this delightful humor when they reached the Louvre, and made their way at once to pay their homage to the Venus of Milo. They did not say much as they looked at her, moving slowly from place to place to get the different points of view. Each knew what the other felt, and words seemed out of place. Presently the princess said: “I have a fancy to try an experiment. Let’s name her! What I mean is, if that were a real woman, what would you think the name best suited to her?” Martha smiled comprehendingly, and looked at the statue with a gaze of deep concentration. This changed, after a moment, into a smile, as she said: “I’ve named her. It’s so absurd, however,” she went on, “to give such a name as I’ve chosen to that ancient Greek statue, that I’m almost ashamed to tell it.” “You needn’t be,” said the princess, smiling too; “for I’ve got a name about which I have exactly the same feeling. Come; I’ll say mine first. It’s Gloriana.” “And mine is Georgiana! How odd that they should be so much alike!” “Isn’t it? It’s delightful, though; for it shows that there’s something in my theory of names, and that this statue has made almost exactly the same impression on us. I’m eager now to name the Winged Victory. Come; let’s go and look at her.” They hurried away to the foot of the wide staircase, where, looking up, they saw the magnificent creature with her great wings spread. After standing before her in silence a few moments, the princess exclaimed suddenly: “Oh, have you named her yet? A _perfect_ name for her has come to me!” “And to me, too--_perfect_!” said Martha. “How many syllables has yours?”