She is what they call here a belle femme, which means that she is a tall, ugly woman, with style.

She dresses very well, and has a great deal of talk; but, though she is a very good imitation of a lady, I never see her behind the dinner-table, in the evening, smiling and bowing, as the people come in, and looking all the while at the dishes and the servants, without thinking of a _dame de comptoir_ blooming in a corner of a shop or a restaurant.

I am sure that, in spite of her fine name, she was once a _dame de comptoir_.

I am also sure that, in spite of her smiles and the pretty things she says to every one, she hates us all, and would like to murder us.

She is a hard, clever Frenchwoman, who would like to amuse herself and enjoy her Paris, and she must be bored to death at passing all her time in the midst of stupid English people who mumble broken French at her.