“How are you, madame?—Very well, madame. I broke my arm yesterday morning going to buy some gloves, but it’s cured now.—Oh, that’s good. And how is your little girl?—She has the whooping cough.—Oh, what a pity! Does she cough much?—No, it’s a whooping cough that has no cough. You know, madame, I had two children last week?—Really? That makes four.—Four or five, I don’t know which. When you have so many you get confused.—You have a very pretty dress on.—Oh, I have still nicer ones at home—Do you go to the theatre?—Every evening.—I went yesterday to the opera, but Punch did not act, because a wolf ate him up.—I, my dear, go to a dance every day.—That’s very amusing.—Yes, I wear a blue dress and I dance with all the young people, the very nicest, generals, princes, confectioners.—You are as pretty as heart could wish to-day, little one.—It’s the springtime.—Yes, but too bad it snows.—I like the snow, because it’s so white.—Oh, but this is black snow.—Yes, isn’t it a horrid kind?”

This fine conversation Miss Catherine maintains with much skill. I have only one fault to find with it: she talks always to the same caller, who is pretty and has a pretty dress. That is wrong. A good hostess is equally polite to all her guests. She treats them all with consideration, and if she shows any preference it is for those who are most modest and least fortunate. One must flatter the unfortunate: it is the only flattery that is permissible. But Catherine has found this out herself. She has found the true politeness—which comes from the heart. She serves tea to her guests, and remembers every one. Indeed, she insists especially with those dollies that are poor or unhappy or shy that they take some invisible cakes or sandwiches made of dominos.