“Which could be said about most American girls, I suppose. Forgive me, I had no desire to dilute my compliment. It’s just that here in the Old World, we’ve become so accustomed to the sort of woman we see everywhere about us that American girls take us quite by storm. So open and frank, so — well, fresh is the word for it, after all. Now I am embarrassing you, do forgive me.”
“I’m flattered,” Lizzie said.
“One grows so weary of our young English girls, with their horsey ways, their lack of elegance and their brusque manner of walking,” Alison said. “And how tiresome the French girls are, those humble violets of supposed femininity. The American girl is more like an orchid, I would say, blooming in a way that surprises me incessantly. Beautiful, dazzling, it first charms by its strangeness, and then intoxicates with its subtle perfume. It lives on air, an orchid, and needs none of the material conditions of existence for other plants. The surprise is that it often comes from a gnarled stem which seems to defy beauty. Yet from this hideous stem, it blossoms frequently — with singular, but always incomparable, attractiveness. The American girl is surely the orchid among all feminine flowers.”
Lizzie was struck speechless.
“Considering the more than eleven thousand virgins who migrate semiannually from America to the shores of England and France,” Alison said, “one might be compelled to argue that there is no such creature as the American girl, since — like the orchid — she comes in many different species and varieties. And, certainly, I’ve met or observed a great many American girls who commit the commonest sins — or supposed sins,” she added, “against public manners, like loud laughing and talking in hotel parlors or salles à manger. But rarely is she badly dressed, however unmusical her cackle, however much slang may pepper her speech. Her stylishness, of course, may be due either to the quickness of her eye or the length of her purse; one has no way of judging. But surely Paris dresses her à ravir, and she wears her clothes like a queen — or, rather, as queens but seldom do.”
Lizzie was staring at her now, quite overwhelmed.
“Here in the Old World,” Alison said, “the American girl is certain of attracting any young man who’s abused life, who’s a little blase, and who — to be captivated — has need of what we call du montant. But, surely, it’s the same for you at home, is it not? Your father must be plagued by gentlemen callers ringing your doorbell day and night.”
“Well... no,” Lizzie said.
“No?” Alison said. “I’m surprised, truly. I should have thought just the opposite. You have such marvelous color, Lizzie, that wonderfully fiery hair, and those incredible gray eyes. It’s a pity cosmetics are so frowned upon these days — oh, a little pearl powder, perhaps, or a faint dusting from a papier poudré, but only for married women, of course,” she said, and again rolled her eyes. “But how I would love to rouge your cheeks — or my own, for that matter — as many dotty dowagers do, or daub a bit of lip salve on your mouth, or line your eyes with kohl as black as Cleopatra must have used. How silly of me, you’re quite beautiful enough without any artifice.”
“I’ve... never considered myself beautiful,” Lizzie said, and realized she was blushing.
“Are there no looking glasses in all of Fall River then?” Alison asked, and smiled.
“You’re too kind.”
“Too honest, perhaps. I had no intention of making you blush.”
“I fear I am,” Lizzie said.
“But that is part of your American charm, dear Lizzie,” Alison said, and leaned across the low table between them to pat her hand as she had done on the train.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever had a conversation quite like this one,” Lizzie said, and smiled.
“The broadening influence of travel,” Alison said, and returned the smile. “But surely you have female companions at home.”
“Yes, but...”
“Well, what do you talk about there?”
“I’m not certain, actually. We talk about various matters, I suppose.”
“Matters such as...”
“Well... matters that might interest us.”
“And what might interest you, Lizzie?”
“The same things that might interest any woman my age. The church, of course...”
“Are you a regular churchgoer then?”
“I am.”
“Then you must forgive my earlier reference to Evensong.”
“I took no notice of it,” Lizzie said politely.
“And what other matters? Other than church matters?”
“The things that interest women most.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I’m sure it’s the same here in England.”
“I’m sure. But tell me.”
“Well, cooking, of course... I suppose we discuss recipes a great deal. And needlework... all sorts of needlework. I see you have some about. Is it your own handiwork?”
“Perish the thought,” Alison said. “I should sooner dig ditches.”
“Well... as I say... embroidery and knitting and common sewing. And other things, of course.”
“What other things?”
“Flowers... our gardens. And books we’ve read... or magazine articles. The same as here, I’m sure.”
“Which magazines do you read, Lizzie?”
“Harper’s Bazaar, of course. And Peterson’s Magazine, and Godey’s Lady’s Book, and Frank Leslie’s Gazette of Fashion...”
“Fashion interests you, I can tell. You dress so beautifully.”
“Well, thank you,” Lizzie said again. She could not imagine such wild compliments — or was it simply European flattery? — from a woman herself so beautiful. Again she felt herself blushing.
“How prettily you blush,” Alison said. “And the books you read? What of those?”
“I can scarcely recall, I’ve read so many. Let me see. This past spring, I think it was, I read The American Commonwealth...”
“Ah, by one of ours, an Oxford professor.”
“Yes, James Bryce.”
“Why such a learned volume?”
“I was interested in his views on the United States.”
“ ‘Sailing a summer sea’, wasn’t that his metaphor? ‘And setting a course of responsible liberty that will be a model for the world’.”
“He perhaps flattered us too much,” Lizzie said, and her eyes met Alison’s directly.
“As I flatter you, do you mean?” she said, picking up the challenge at once. “But surely there’s a line between honest praise and flattery, is there not? And equally as certain, one who denies a compliment only seeks the same compliment twice.”
“Well, I... I really wasn’t...”
“And now I’ve flustered my Lizzie,” Alison said. “Forgive me. Tell me what else you’ve been reading.”
“Time and Free Will...”
“Ah, yes, Essai sur les données, et cetera, et cetera. I read it in the French. Did it interest you?”
“I found it... difficult.”
“Perhaps something was lost in translation,” Alison said.
“Perhaps.”
“What else? Do you read many novels?”
“Those that are proper for me to read, yes.”
“Proper?”
“Morally acceptable.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve just finished A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.”
“Ah, your clever Mark Twain, yes. Did you read it as preparation?”
“Preparation?”