gerated the appearance. Beyond this, the
air of being much at his ease was a cover for vigilant observation. He
was more than interested in this clever woman, who, whatever he might
say, was clever not at all after the Boston fashion; she plunged him
into a kind of excitement, held him in vague suspense. He was obliged to
admit to himself that he had never yet seen a woman just like this--not
even in China. He was ashamed, for inscrutable reasons, of the vivacity
of his emotion, and he carried it off, superficially, by taking, still
superficially, the humorous view of Madame Munster. It was not at all
true that he thought it very natural of her to have made this pious
pilgrimage. It might have been said of him in advance that he was too
good a Bostonian to regard in the light of an eccentricity the desire of
even the remotest alien to visit the New England metropolis. This was an
impulse for which, surely, no apology was needed; and Madame Munster
was the fortunate possessor of several New England cousins. In fact,
however, Madame Munster struck him as out of keeping with her little
circle; she was at the best a very agreeable, a gracefully mystifying
anomaly. He knew very well that it would not do to address these
reflections too crudely to Mr. Wentworth; he would never have remarked
to the old gentleman that he wondered what the Baroness was up to. And
indeed he had no great desire to share his vague mistrust with any one.
There was a personal pleasure in it; the greatest pleasure he had known
at least since he had come from China. He would keep the Baroness, for
better or worse, to himself; he had a feeling that he deserved to
enjoy a monopoly of her, for he was certainly the person who had most
adequately gauged her capacity for social intercourse. Before long it
became apparent to him that the Baroness was disposed to lay no tax upon
such a monopoly.

One day (he was sitting there again and playing with a fan) she asked
him to apologize, should the occasion present itself, to certain people
in Boston for her not having returned their calls. "There are half a
dozen places," she said; "a formidable list. Charlotte Wentworth has
written it out for me, in a terrifically distinct hand. There is
no ambiguity on the subject; I know perfectly where I must go. Mr.
Wentworth informs me that the carriage is always at my disposal, and
Charlotte offers to go with me, in a pair of tight gloves and a very
stiff petticoat. And yet