one must always have in one's work here
below a religion, or at least an ideal, of some sort, Newman found his
metaphysical inspiration in a vague acceptance of final responsibility
to some illumined feminine brow.

He spent a great deal of time in listening to advice from Mrs. Tristram;
advice, it must be added, for which he had never asked. He would
have been incapable of asking for it, for he had no perception of
difficulties, and consequently no curiosity about remedies. The complex
Parisian world about him seemed a very simple affair; it was an immense,
amazing spectacle, but it neither inflamed his imagination nor
irritated his curiosity. He kept his hands in his pockets, looked on
good-humoredly, desired to miss nothing important, observed a great many
things narrowly, and never reverted to himself. Mrs. Tristram's "advice"
was a part of the show, and a more entertaining element, in her abundant
gossip, than the others. He enjoyed her talking about himself; it seemed
a part of her beautiful ingenuity; but he never made an application
of anything she said, or remembered it when he was away from her. For
herself, she appropriated him; he was the most interesting thing she
had had to think about in many a month. She wished to do something with
him--she hardly knew what. There was so much of him; he was so rich
and robust, so easy, friendly, well-disposed, that he kept her fancy
constantly on the alert. For the present, the only thing she could do
was to like him. She told him that he was "horribly Western," but in
this compliment the adverb was tinged with insincerity. She led him
about with her, introduced him to fifty people, and took extreme
satisfaction in her conquest. Newman accepted every proposal, shook
hands universally and promiscuously, and seemed equally unfamiliar
with trepidation or with elation. Tom Tristram complained of his wife's
avidity, and declared that he could never have a clear five minutes with
his friend. If he had known how things were going to turn out, he never
would have brought him to the Avenue d'Iena. The two men, formerly, had
not been intimate, but Newman remembered his earlier impression of his
host, and did Mrs. Tristram, who had by no means taken him into her
confidence, but whose secret he presently discovered, the justice to
admit that her husband was a rather degenerate mortal. At twenty-five he
had been a good fellow, and in this respect he was unchanged; but of a
man of his