"She is a woman of conventions and proprieties," he said to himself as he looked at her; "her world is the world of things immutably decreed.

But how she is at home in it, and what a paradise she finds it.

She walks about in it as if it were a blooming park, a Garden of Eden; and when she sees 'This is genteel,' or 'This is improper,' written on a mile-stone she stops ecstatically, as if she were listening to a nightingale or smelling a rose." Madame de Bellegarde wore a little black velvet hood tied under her chin, and she was wrapped in an old black cashmere shawl.
"You are an American ?" she said presently.

"I have seen several Americans." "There are several in Paris," said Newman jocosely.
"Oh, really ?" said Madame de Bellegarde.

"It was in England I saw these, or somewhere else; not in Paris.