"
At the Jubilee garden party at Lady Monson's I saw the most beautiful
French girl I have seen in Paris. She was superb. In America she would
have been a radiant, a triumphant beauty, and probably would have
acquired the insolent manners of some of our spoiled beauties. Instead
of that, however, she was modest, even timid-looking, except for her
queenly carriage. Her gown was a dream, and a dream of a dress at a
Paris garden party means something.
"What a tearing beauty!" I said to my companion. "Who is she?"
"Yes, poor girl!" he said. "She is the daughter of the Comtesse N----.
One of the prettiest girls in Paris. Not a sou, however; consequently
she will never marry. She will probably go into a convent."
"But why? Why won't she marry? Why aren't all the men crazy about her?
Why don't you marry her?"
"Marry a girl without a _dot_? Thank you, mademoiselle. I am an
expense to myself. My wife must not be an additional encumbrance."
"But surely," I said, "somebody will want to marry her, if no nobleman
will."
"Ah, yes, but she is of noble blood, and she must not marry beneath
her.
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