She held in high esteem his profound irony, his great pride, his talent ripened in solitude, and she admired him, with reason, as an excellent writer, the author of powerful essays on art and on life.
Little by little the room filled with a brilliant crowd.

Within the large circle of armchairs were Madame de Wesson, about whom people told frightful stories, and who kept, after twenty years of half-smothered scandal, the eyes of a child and cheeks of virginal smoothness; old Madame de Morlaine, who shouted her witty phrases in piercing cries; Madame Raymond, the wife of the Academician; Madame Garain, the wife of the exminister; three other ladies; and, standing easily against the mantelpiece, M.Berthier d'Eyzelles, editor of the 'Journal des Debats', a deputy who caressed his white beard while Madame de Morlaine shouted at him: "Your article on bimetallism is a pearl, a jewel! Especially the end of it." Standing in the rear of the room, young clubmen, very grave, lisped among themselves: "What did he do to get the button from the Prince ?" "He, nothing.

His wife, everything." They had their own cynical philosophy.

One of them had no faith in promises of men.
"They are types that do not suit me.

They wear their hearts on their hands and on their mouths.