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her finger-tips to her forehead; she didn’t remember to have
known any such Henrietta as that. The servant then re-
marked that the lady had requested him to say that if the
Countess should not recognize her name she would know
her well enough on seeing her. By the time she appeared be-
fore her visitor she had in fact reminded herself that there
was once a literary lady at Mrs. Touchett’s; the only woman
of letters she had ever encountered-that is the only modern
one, since she was the daughter of a defunct poetess. She rec-
ognized Miss Stackpole immediately, the more so that Miss
Stackpole seemed perfectly unchanged; and the Countess,
who was thoroughly good-natured, thought it rather fine
to be called on by a person of that sort of distinction. She
wondered if Miss Stackpole had come on account of her
mother-whether she had heard of the American Corinne.
Her mother was not at all like Isabel’s friend; the Countess
could see at a glance that this lady was much more contem-
porary; and she received an impression of the improvements
that were taking place-chiefly in distant countries-in the
character (the professional character) of literary ladies. Her
mother had been used to wear a Roman scarf thrown over
a pair of shoulders timorously bared of their tight black vel-
vet (oh the old clothes! and a gold laurel-wreath set upon
a multitude of glossy ringlets. She had spoken softly and
vaguely, with the accent of her ‘Creole’ ancestors, as she al-
ways confessed; she sighed a great deal and was not at all
enterprising. But Henrietta, the Countess could see, was
always closely buttoned and compactly braided; there was
something brisk and business-like in her appearance; her

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