"You overwhelm me with courtesy," said Barrington.
"No, no; it is nothing. To-morrow evening I may have the opportunity of presenting you to the Marquise."
"And to her niece?"
"Mademoiselle St. Clair? That is as Monsieur wills," he laughed.
"I do not understand your merriment."
"Pardon, Monsieur, but there are not many who crave presentation to Mademoiselle. You have not heard of her?"
"Nothing but her name."
"Think, Monsieur, of a large woman with black hair and complexion more swart than beautiful, with large hands that could clasp mine and hide them, and feet flat and heavy; a figure that is no figure, all its lines pressed from within out of place and which shakes as she walks; a voice whose whisper is raucous. Then, Monsieur, conceive this woman unaware of her defects, who simpers and attempts to use her dull eyes in fascination. That is Mademoiselle St. Clair."
"Surely you exaggerate?"
"No, it is a fair picture," said the friend, "and yet she has admirers. Her fortune is as large as her person."