As to his smile, one could not in a hurry make up one's mind as to the descriptive epithet it merited; there was something in it that pleased, but something too that brought surging up into the mind all one's foibles and weak points: all that could lay one open to a laugh.

Yet Fifine liked this doubtful smile, and thought the owner genial: much as he had hurt her, she held out her hand to bid him a friendly good-night.

He patted the little hand kindly, and then he and Madame went down-stairs together; she talking in her highest tide of spirits and volubility, he listening with an air of good-natured amenity, dashed with that unconscious roguish archness I find it difficult to describe.
I noticed that though he spoke French well, he spoke English better; he had, too, an English complexion, eyes, and form.

I noticed more.

As he passed me in leaving the room, turning his face in my direction one moment--not to address me, but to speak to Madame, yet so standing, that I almost necessarily looked up at him--a recollection which had been struggling to form in my memory, since the first moment I heard his voice, started up perfected.