They sat about and looked at her--yawning, perhaps, a little at times, but on the whole very well entertained, and often exchanging a smiling commentary with each other.

She looked at them, smiled at them each, in succession.

Every one had his turn, and this always helped to give Blanche an audience.

Incoherent and aimless as much of her talk was, she never looked prettier than in the attitude of improvisation--or rather, I should say, than in the hundred attitudes which she assumed at such a time.

Perpetually moving, she was yet constantly graceful, and while she twisted her body and turned her head, with charming hands that never ceased to gesticulate, and little, conscious, brilliant eyes that looked everywhere at once--eyes that seemed to chatter even faster than her lips--she made you forget the nonsense she poured forth, or think of it only as a part of her personal picturesqueness.