But she was one of those plain women whose
plainness does not matter. A gallant Frenchman had to her face called her
a _belle laide_, and, far from denying the justness of his observation,
she had been almost flattered. Her mouth was large, and she had little
round bright eyes. Her skin was colourless and much disfigured by
freckles. Her nose was long and thin. But her face was so kindly, her
vivacity so attractive, that no one after ten minutes thought of her
ugliness. You noticed then that her hair, though sprinkled with white,
was pretty, and that her figure was exceedingly neat. She had good hands,
very white and admirably formed, which she waved continually in the
fervour of her gesticulation. Now that her means were adequate she took
great pains with her dress, and her clothes, though they cost much more
than she could afford, were always beautiful. Her taste was so great,
her tact so sure, that she was able to make the most of herself. She
was determined that if people called her ugly they should be forced
in the same breath to confess that she was perfectly gowned.
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