He felt as if he were at
the play, and as if his own speaking would be an interruption; sometimes
he wished he had a book, to follow the dialogue; he half expected to see
a woman in a white cap and pink ribbons come and offer him one for two
francs. Some of the ladies looked at him very hard--or very soft, as you
please; others seemed profoundly unconscious of his presence. The men
looked only at Madame de Cintre. This was inevitable; for whether one
called her beautiful or not she entirely occupied and filled one's
vision, just as an agreeable sound fills one's ear. Newman had but
twenty distinct words with her, but he carried away an impression to
which solemn promises could not have given a higher value. She was part
of the play that he was seeing acted, quite as much as her companions;
but how she filled the stage and how much better she did it! Whether she
rose or seated herself; whether she went with her departing friends to
the door and lifted up the heavy curtain as they passed out, and stood
an instant looking after them and giving them the last nod; or whether
she leaned back in her chair with her arms crossed and her eyes resting,
listening and smiling; she gave Newman the feeling that he should like
to have her always before him, moving slowly to and fro along the whole
scale of expressive hospitality.
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