He would refer in a studiously grave tone to Madame de Lastaola's
wishes, plans, activities, instructions, movements; or picking up a
letter from the usual litter of paper found on such men's desks,
glance at it to refresh his memory; and, while the very sight of
the handwriting would make my lips go dry, would ask me in a
bloodless voice whether perchance I had "a direct communication
from--er--Paris lately." And there would be other maddening
circumstances connected with those visits. He would treat me as a
serious person having a clear view of certain eventualities, while
at the very moment my vision could see nothing but streaming across
the wall at his back, abundant and misty, unearthly and adorable, a
mass of tawny hair that seemed to have hot sparks tangled in it.
Another nuisance was the atmosphere of Royalism, of Legitimacy,
that pervaded the room, thin as air, intangible, as though no
Legitimist of flesh and blood had ever existed to the man's mind
except perhaps myself. He, of course, was just simply a banker, a
very distinguished, a very influential, and a very impeccable
banker. He persisted also in deferring to my judgment and sense
with an over-emphasis called out by his perpetual surprise at my
youth.
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