THE AMERICAN
represented in an occasional vague smile—the very vagueness of which pleased him by allowing him to fill it out mentally, both at the time and afterwards, with such meanings as most fitted. He sat by without speaking, looking at the entrances and exits, the greetings and chatterings, of Madame de Cintré's guests. 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 gave him a very hard or a very soft stare, as he chose; others seemed profoundly unconscious of his presence. The men looked only at the mistress of the scene. This was inevitable, for whether one called her beautiful or not she entirely occupied and filled one's vision, quite as an ample, agreeable sound filled one's ear. Newman carried away after no more than twenty distinct words with her an impression to which solemn promises could not have given a higher value. She was part of the play he was seeing acted, as much a part of it as her companions, but how she filled the stage and how she bore watching, not to say studying and throwing bouquets to! 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 quiet, her face listening and smiling, she made this particular guest desire to have her always before him,
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