When Paul and Etta were speaking together she never looked at them, but fixedly at her own plate, at a decanter, or a salt-cellar.

When she spoke she addressed her remarks--valueless enough in themselves--exclusively to the man she disliked, Claude de Chauxville.
There was something amiss in the pretty little room.

There were shadows seated around that pretty little table a quatre, beside the guests in their pretty dresses and their black coats; silent cold shadows, who ate nothing, while they chilled the dainty food and took the sweetness from the succulent dishes.

These shadows had crept in unawares, a silent partie carree, to take their phantom places at the table, and only Etta seemed able to jostle hers aside and talk it down.

She took the whole burden of the conversation upon her pretty shoulders, and bore it through the little banquet with unerring skill and unflinching good humor.