And did you go to Barbizon ?" Another in her place might have added, "And why did you write so seldom ?" There was something that closed Janet's lips to this.

It was the same thing that would not permit her to call Kendal "Jack," as several other people did, though her Christian name had been allowed to him for a long time.

It made an awkwardness sometimes, for she would not say "Mr.Kendal" either--that would be a rebuke or a suggestion of inferiority, or what not--but she bridged it over as best she could with a jocose appellative like "signor," "monsieur," or "Mr.John Kendal," in full.
"Jack" was impossible, "John" was worse.

Yes, with a little nervous shudder, _much_ worse.
He told her about Paris to her fascination; she had never seen it: about the boulevards and the cafes and the men's ateliers, and the vagrant pathos of student life there--he had seen some clean bits of it--and to all of this old story he gave such life as a word or a phrase can give.
Even his repressions were full of meaning, and the best--she felt it was the best--he had to offer her he offered in fewest words, letting her imagination riot with them.

He described Lucien and the American Colony.
He made her laugh abundantly over the American amateur as Lucien managed him.