Page:In a winter city, by Ouida.djvu/58

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Ottoseccoli looks; powder becomes her so; her son is a pretty boy—oh, you never stoop to boys; you are wrong; nothing amuses you like a boy; how they believe in one! There is that Canadian woman who tried to get into notice in Paris two seasons ago—you remember?—they make her quite Crême in this place—the idea! She is dressed very well, I dare say if she were always dumb she might pass. She never would have been heard of even here, only Attavante pushed her right and left, bribed the best people to her parties, and induced all his other tendresses to send her cards. In love! of course not! Who is in love with a face like a Mohican squaw's, and a squeak like a goose's? But they are immensely rich; at least they have mountains of ready money; he must have suffered dreadfully before he made her dress well. Teach her grammar, in any language, he never will. There is the old Duchess—why, she was a centenarian when we were babies—but they say she plays every atom as keenly as ever—nobody can beat her for lace either—look at that Spanish point.