Mdme. M. (throwing herself into a possible breach). "Mes amis, I have to announce to you the arrival of a new pensionnaire—a young Englishman, who has been here this morning, and has taken my vacant room on the third floor."
Mdme. de B. "An Englishman? Bah! Ils sont tous bêtes."
Mdme. M. (wagging her head), "Il n'en a pas l'air, celui là. Il est bien, tres bien, et élégant—tout à fait 'gentleman.'"
Narishkine. "Then we shall all hate him—that is, all the men. His name, Madame Martineau?"
Mdme. M. "Monsieur Georges. He comes to study painting."
Mdme. de B. "Poor, I suppose?"
Mdme. M. "Who knows? He has paid a week in advance."
Prof. Genron. "Those Americans will get hold of him."
Mdme. de B. "And that fine mouche!"
"Mr. George," with his fair fresh colouring, so rare in France, his blonde moustache of two months' growth, his immaculate clothes, his good spirits, and his winning smile, made a distinctly favourable impression on the ladies assembled at dinner that night. On the men, if the effect was less convincing, it was at least not one to rouse antagonism. He did not thrust himself into undue prominence; he spoke French with ease; he differed from his elders with a pretty air of deprecation calculated to disarm them. Even the cynical professor and the embittered Russian could find nothing worse to say in
