But if her toilette was triumphant, her manner was more so. On one side of her sat a Frenchman, on the other a Spaniard, opposite Captain Over a German, and she addressed each in his language, taking care that none should suffer at the expense of the other; and it was manifest that they all adored her. She was, in fact, a brilliant figure, and if her sweet smile was somewhat mechanical, and her fine, gray eyes keen and passionless, her swains were too dazzled by her manner and her handsome appearance to detect the flaws. Catalina cocked her ears, but found neither wisdom nor cleverness in the remarks that fell from the thin, well-cut lips. It was the girl’s linguistic accomplishment, her bright manner of saying nothing, and willingness to hear men talk, that were responsible for the delusion that she was a brilliant woman. Catalina’s curiosity could no longer contain itself, and she turned abruptly to Mrs. Rothe and spoke for the first time. “Who is she?” she asked. “Have you heard?” “Her name is Holmes, and I heard her sister, that dowdy little artist over there, call her Edith.” “I wonder who—what—she is?” “Nobody in particular, I should think.” “But she—she—dominates everything.” “That is the American girl—a certain type. You’ll see a great many of them if you go about enough. This specimen was born with a respectable amount of good looks, a high opinion of herself, and some magnetism. On her way through life she has acquired what some call autorité, others bluff. She probably has no position to speak of at home—she never would wear her hair in that Florodora lump on her forehead if she had—but she has made a great deal of running in summer and winter resorts, and in Europe. The study of her life is twofold: dress and how to please men—while deluding them that they are graciously permitted to please her. Her knack for languages stands her in good stead, her tact is almost—never quite—perfect; for she too often makes the mistake of snubbing women. She knows the value of every glance, she has a genius for small talk and dress—probably she has not an income of a hundred and fifty dollars a month, and her sister has to dress like a sweep to help her out—and I should be willing to stake all I have that she dances to perfection. She is the sort of girl that men delight to make a belle of, not only because she flatters them and is always ‘all there,’ but because she does them so much credit. But they usually are quite content to swell her train, and forget to propose. What she is on the lookout for, of course, is a rich husband; but every year she becomes more and more the veteran flirt, more polished and mechanical, and less seductive, and will end by taking any one she can get.” “She is a type, then. I fancied her unique.” “Dear me! There are hundreds like her.” “All the same, I can’t take my eyes off her. She fascinates me. I don’t like her—but I think I’d like to be like her.”