She had never looked at him once.
During the rather humiliating silence that ensued he got a leather cigar case like a small valise out of his pocket, opened it and looked with critical interest at the six cigars it contained.

The tireless _femme-de-chambre_ set down a tray with coffee cups on the table.

We each (glad, I suppose, of something to do) took one, but he, to begin with, sniffed at his.

Dona Rita continued leaning on her elbow, her lips closed in a reposeful expression of peculiar sweetness.

There was nothing drooping in her attitude.