"In France a clever woman is always _bien chaussee_.

Her brains run to her toes.

In England it is different.

If a woman has a brain it undermines her morals or ruins her waist." "Only the plain women," suggested I, who had passed several seasons in London not altogether in vain.
"A pretty woman is never clever--she is too wise," said John Turner, stolidly, and he sipped his chablis.
The mysterious sauce with which this great gastronome flavoured his oysters was now prepared, while I, it must be confessed, had consumed my portion, and John Turner relapsed into silence.

I watched him as he ate delicately, slowly, with a queer refinement.