“Rather he is a _big_ man,” replies the philosopher. “Like some houses, his foundations cover a deal of ground; but then he is only one story high. If you could raise Mr. Adams another story, he would be a _great_ man.” The good doctor goes over, and becomes polite to Mrs. Adams; for the enlightenment of that lady of reserve and dignity, he expands on France and the French character. Suddenly the door is thrown open, and all unannounced a queer figure rushes in. She is clad in rumpled muslin and soiled lutestring. Her hair is frizzed, her face painted, her cap awry, and she is fair and fat and of middle years. This remarkable apparition embraces Doctor Franklin, kisses him resoundingly, first on the left cheek then on the right, crying: “My flame!--my love!--my Franklin!” The seasoned doctor receives this caressing broadside steadily, while the desolated Mrs. Adams sits round-eyed and stony. “It is the eccentric Madame Helvetius,” explains Madame Brillon in a low tone to Mrs. Adams. “They call her the ‘Rich Widow of Passy.’ She and the good doctor are dearest friends.” “Eccentric!” Mrs. Adams perceives as much, and says so. Doctor Franklin returns to Mrs. Adams, whom he suspects of being hungry for an explanation, while the buoyant Madame Helvetius, as one sure of her impregnable position, wanders confidently about the room. “You should become acquainted with Madame Helvetius,” submits the doctor pleasantly. “Wise, generous, afire for our cause--you would dote on her.” Mrs. Adams icily fears not. “Believe me; you would!” insists the doctor. “True! her manners are of her people and her region. They are not those of Puritan New England.” Mrs. Adams interrupts to say that she has never before heard so much said in favor of Puritan New England. “And yet, my dear Mrs. Adams,” goes on the good doctor, as one determined to conquer for Madame Helvetius the other’s favorable opinion, “you would do wrong to apply a New England judgment to our friend. Her exuberance is of the surface.” Then, quizzically: “A mere manner, I assure you, and counts for no more than should what she is doing now.” Mrs. Adams lifts her severe gaze at this to Madame Helvetius. That amiable French woman is in rapt and closest converse with Mr. Adams, hand on his shoulder, her widowed lips to his ear. Mr. Adams is standing as one frozen, casting ever and anon a furtive glance, like an alarmed sheep, at Mrs. Adams. For an arctic moment, Mrs. Adams is held by the terrors of that spectacle; then she moves to her husband’s rescue. Madame Helvetius comes presently to Doctor Franklin. “What an iceberg!” she remarks, with a toss of the frizzed head towards Mr. Adams. “Does he ever thaw!” Then, as her glance takes in Mrs. Adams: “Poor man! He might be August, missing her. It is she who congeals him.”