The princess stared out of her window in silence, noting the disappearance of the chocolate-colored houses, the beauty of the shops--and yes, even of the shoppers. But her son was not gifted with reticence. If his impressions had been disagreeable he might have been silent, but as they were flattering he saw no reason for suppressing them. He thought Fifth Avenue wonderful. "And, my eye," he kept saying--an expression he had learned early in life from an English groom--"what a lot of pretty girls, and what a lot of cars! I did not know there were so many motor cars in the world." Charlotte smiled as if she knew he meant to be kind, and suddenly laying her hand on the princess' knee, she said, "Oh, I'm so afraid you're going to hate it all, but you don't know what it means to me to have you here." The princess was touched. Yet it must be owned that Lisa found the next few weeks confusing--confusing, that is, if Charlotte were to be regarded as the starved prisoner of an alien culture. They were agreeable weeks; Raimundo was in the seventh heaven. He dined, danced, lunched, and danced again. He went into the country and tobogganed, and learned to walk on snowshoes. When asked how he was enjoying America he always made the same answer: "I shall never go home. My eye! What girls!" His mother enjoyed herself more mildly, and with certain reservations. Erudite gentlemen were put next to her at dinner--a Frenchman who was a specialist on Chinese porcelains; a painter of Spanish birth; and several English novelists and poets who were either just beginning or just completing successful lecture tours of the United States; interesting men, in one way or another, yet--and yet--the princess asked herself if she had crossed the wide Atlantic simply to see this pale replica of a civilization she already knew. And something else puzzled and distressed her. Her friend Charlotte seemed to her the freest of created beings--freer than any woman the princess had ever known, to make of her life anything she wanted to make of it. But Charlotte's life seemed to lack purpose and dignity. Charlotte liked to feel that learned men came to her house, but her state of nerves did not always allow her to listen to what they said. Serious books were on her table, and sometimes in her hands, and yet her day lacked those long safe hours of leisure in which such books are read. There was no doubt that a realer, more vital Charlotte appeared buying a new hat or playing a game of bridge or asking someone to dinner, than the Charlotte who lamented the lost beauty of an old world. And yet she wasn't just a fraud.