There is something
fine in that."
I had blushed with pleasure; such fine ideas had never entered my
head. But there was something fine. . . . How far all this seemed!
How mute and how still! What a phantom he was, that man with a
beard of at least seven tones of brown. And those shades of the
other kind such as Baptiste with the shaven diplomatic face, the
maitre d'hotel in charge of the petit salon, taking my hat and
stick from me with a deferential remark: "Monsieur is not very
often seen nowadays." And those other well-groomed heads raised
and nodding at my passage--"Bonjour." "Bonjour"--following me with
interested eyes; these young X.s and Z.s, low-toned, markedly
discreet, lounging up to my table on their way out with murmurs:
"Are you well?"--"Will one see you anywhere this evening?"--not
from curiosity, God forbid, but just from friendliness; and passing
on almost without waiting for an answer. What had I to do with
them, this elegant dust, these moulds of provincial fashion?
I also often lunched with Dona Rita without invitation. But that
was now unthinkable. What had I to do with a woman who allowed
somebody else to make her cry and then with an amazing lack of good
feeling did her offensive weeping on my shoulder? Obviously I
could have nothing to do with her.
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