cousin but the
right one.

Dear me, where DO they keep them, these women that one reads about? I
suppose where they keep the pretty girl of Art. You have seen her,
have you not, Reader, the pretty girl in the picture? She leaps the
six-barred gate with a yard and a half to spare, turning round in her
saddle the while to make some smiling remark to the comic man behind,
who, of course, is standing on his head in the ditch. She floats
gracefully off Dieppe on stormy mornings. Her baigneuse--generally of
chiffon and old point lace--has not lost a curve. The older ladies,
bathing round her, look wet. Their dress clings damply to their limbs.
But the pretty girl of Art dives, and never a curl of her hair is
disarranged. The pretty girl of Art stands lightly on tip-toe and
volleys a tennis-ball six feet above her head. The pretty girl of Art
keeps the head of the punt straight against a stiff current and a strong
wind. SHE never gets the water up her sleeve, and down her back, and
all over the cushions. HER pole never sticks in the mud, with the steam
launch ten yards off and the man looking the other way. The pretty girl
of Art skates in high-heeled French shoes at an angle of forty-five
to the surface of the ice, both hands in her muff. SHE never sits down
plump, with her feet a yard apart, and says "Ough." The pretty girl of
Art drives tandem down Piccadilly, during the height of the season, at
eighteen miles an hour. It never occurs to HER leader that the time has
now arrived for him to turn round and get into the cart. The pretty
girl of Art rides her bicycle through the town on market day, carrying
a basket of eggs, and smiling right and left. SHE never throws away
both her handles and runs into a cow. The pretty girl of Art goes trout
fishing in open-work stockings, under a blazing sun, with a bunch of
dew-bespangled primroses in her hair; and every time she gracefully
flicks her rod she hauls out a salmon. SHE never ties herself up to a
tree, or hooks the dog. SHE never comes home, soaked and disagreeable,
to tell you that she caught six, but put them all back again, because
they were merely two or three-pounders, and not worth the trouble of
carrying. The pretty girl of Art plays croquet with one hand, and looks
as if she enjoyed the game. SHE never tries to accidentally kick her
ball into position when nobody is noticing, or stands it out that she is
through a hoop that she knows she isn't.

She is a good, all-rou