throw a sop to propriety. But I said to myself that this was doubtless the Parisian tone, and that since it had made its mark upon so perfect a little model of social orthodoxy as my estimable friend, nothing was more possible than that I too should become equally perverted. Whenever, after this, Sanguinetti came in, he had something to say at first about the lovely creature across the way. "Have you noticed her this morning?" he would demand. "She is really enchanting. I thought of asking leave to kiss her."
"I wonder you should ask leave," I answered. "I should suppose you would do it without leave, and count upon being forgiven."
"I am afraid of hurting her," he said. "And then if I should be seen from the street, it would look rather absurd."
I could only say that he seemed to me a very odd mixture of audacity and discretion, but he went on without heeding my comments: "You may laugh at the idea, but, upon my word, to me she is different every day: she has never the same expression. Sometimes she's a little melancholy—sometimes she's in high spirits."
"I should say she was always smiling."
"Superficially, yes," said Sanguinetti. "That's all the vulgar see. But there's something beneath it—the most delicious little pensive look. At bottom
