The marquis appeared to have decided that the fine arts offered a safe subject of conversation, as not leading to startling personal revelations.

Every now and then, having learned from Newman that he had been through the museums of Europe, he uttered some polished aphorism upon the flesh-tints of Rubens and the good taste of Sansovino.

His manners seemed to indicate a fine, nervous dread that something disagreeable might happen if the atmosphere were not purified by allusions of a thoroughly superior cast.

"What under the sun is the man afraid of ?" Newman asked himself.

"Does he think I am going to offer to swap jack-knives with him ?" It was useless to shut his eyes to the fact that the marquis was profoundly disagreeable to him.
He had never been a man of strong personal aversions; his nerves had not been at the mercy of the mystical qualities of his neighbors.