Mdme. de B. (with an evil twinkle). "You wished to worship at the shrine of St. Thomas?"
Morin. "Madame Martinean wisely decided in favour of French sinners against the English saint."
Genron. "The English saint seems to have come here instead, and your conversation will have to be apostolic. Monsieur le Docteur, henceforward—hein?"
Morin. "Mine? Ah! par exemple! It is rather your tongue that must be held in leash, Monsieur le Professeur!"
Mdme. M. (once more flinging herself between the combatants). "Mees Shaw has splendid eyes—and what hair!"
Doucet. "It is like the clouds of night, swept away by the daybreak."
Mdme. de B. (with her keepsake air). "How poetical! Yes, she has fine hair. Seulement—si mal coiffée."
Genron. "Ah! madame, it is not given to every woman to be a barber's block. Her hair is her own. She is a child of nature."
Narishkine. "And all Parisians are children of art."
Morin. "I maintain art is preferable to nature. You are sure of it. Nature is so uncertain."
Doucet. "We love by nature, as the beasts. We love with art, as the gods."
Baring (startling the circle once more). "Some of the gods were beasts; and so is many a pagan worshipper now, whatever be his calling. Poetry, art, learning, will not save him, if the baser half of his double nature gain the predominance."
(With that he rises, touches his sister on the shoulder,
