"Not at all. Harietta Boleski is a product of that most astonishing nation across the Atlantic—none other could produce her. It is the hothouse of the world as regards remarkable types. Here for immediate ancestry we have a mother, from heaven knows what European refuse heap, arrived in an immigrant ship—father of the 'pore white trash' of the south—result: Harietta, fine points, beautiful, quite a lady for ordinary purposes. The absence of soul is strikingly apparent to any ordinary observer, but one only discovers the vulgarity of spirit if one is a student of evolution—or chances to catch her when irritated with her modiste or her maid. Other nations cannot produce such beings. Women with the attributes of Harietta, were they European, would have surface vulgarity showing—and so be out of the running, or they would have real passion which would be their undoing—passion is glorious—it is aroused by something beyond the physical. Observe her nostril! There is simple, delightful animal sensuality for you! Look also at the convex curve below the underlip—she will bite off the cherry whether it is hers by right or another's, and devour it without a backward thought."
"Boleski—that is a Russian name, is it not?"
"No, Polish—she secured our Stanislass, a great man in his country—last year in Berlin, having divorced a no longer required, but worthy German husband who had held some post in the American Consulate there."
"Is that old man standing obediently beside her your Stanislass?—he looks quite cowed."
"A sad sight, is it not? Stanislass, though, is not old, barely forty. He had a béguin for her. She put his intelligence to sleep and bamboozled his judgment with a continuous appeal to the senses; she has vampired him now. Cloying all his will with her sugared caprices, she makes him scenes and so keeps him in subjection. He was one of the Council de l'Empire for Poland; the aims of his country were his earnest work, but now ambition is no more. He is tired, he has ceased to struggle; she rules and eats his soul as she has eaten the souls of others. Shall I present her to you? As a type, she is worthy of your attention."
"It sounds as if she had the evil eye, as the Italians say," Amaryllis shuddered.
"Only for men. She is really an amiable creature—women like her. She is so frankly simple, since for her there are never two issues—only to be allowed her own desires—a riot of extravagance, the first place—and some one to gratify certain instincts without too many refinements when the mood takes her. For the rest, she is kind and good-natured and 'jolly,' as you English say, and has no notion that she is a road to hell. But they are mostly dead, her other spider mates, and cannot tell of it."
"I am much interested. I should like to talk to her. You say that she is happy?"
"Obviously—she is an elemental—she never thinks at all, except to plan some further benefit for herself. I do not believe in this life that she can obtain a soul—her only force is her tenacious will."
"Such force is good, though?"