"Perhaps
paint and feathers and a--a--what is the name, Monsieur? a--tomahawk to
kill with! Ah! Monsieur"--here she sighed in a delightfully droll way
and swept Calvert a courtesy--"as an American you are a great
disappointment!"
"I am inexpressibly grieved to be the cause of any disappointment to
you, Madame," replied Calvert, calmly. "But as for paint and feathers,
surely they can be no novelties to you," and here he looked meaningly
around at the bedaubed, bedecked ladies of fashion (though 'tis but fair
to say that the young beauty before him disdained the use of furbelows
or cosmetics, as well she might with such a brilliant complexion); "and
as for tomahawks--the ladies of this country need no more deadly weapons
than their own bright glances. But truly, Madame, did you expect to see
a young savage?"
"I was hoping to," she said, demurely. "'Twould have been more
interesting than--than--" And here she stopped as if in seeming
embarrassment and loss for words. "Is not America full of them?" she
asked, innocently.
"Assuredly, Madame, as you must know, since they have so often been your
allies!"
As Calvert spoke, all the amusement and good-nature died out of Madame
de St.
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