Mrs. Davis looks like a Juno; her eyebrows
meet on her forehead, and she has the figure of a Greek statue. I do
not like her; she reminds me of the leaning tower at Pisa,--leans but
does not fall. A year ago I paid her some attentions; she flirted with
me outrageously, that was all. My father has a singular weakness for
her; I thought at times he was in love with her. At any rate, he
admires her from a thinker and artist's point of view; for beautiful
she is,--there can be no two opinions as to that,--and of more than
average intelligence. Their conversations, which my father calls
"causeries Romaines," are endless, and they never seem to get tired of
them; maybe these discussions about life's problems with a beautiful
woman appear Italian to him, poetical, and worthy of the times of the
Renaissance. I very seldom take part in these conversations because
I do not believe in Mrs. Davis' sincerity. It seems to me that her
intellect is merely a matter of brain, and not of soul, and that in
reality she does not care for anything except her beauty and the
comforts of life. I have often met women who seem full of lofty
aspiration; upon closer acquaintance it seems that religion,
philosophy, art, and literature, are only so many items of their
toilet. They dress themselves in either as it suits their style of
beauty. I suppose it is the same with Mrs.
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