Jacques's eyes sparkled and a snatch of song came to his lips at these times.
No figures in the Park were so striking.

There was nothing bizarre, but Gaston had a distinguished look, and women who had felt his hand at their waists in the dance the night before, now knew him, somehow, at a grave distance.

Though Gaston did not say it to himself, these were the hours when he really was with the old life--lived it again--prairie, savannah, ice-plain, alkali desert.

When, dismounting, the horses were taken and they went up the stairs, Gaston would softly lay his whip across Jacques's shoulders without speaking.

This was their only ritual of camaraderie, and neglect of it would have fretted the half-breed.
Never had man such a servant.