I resolved to sit down again and resume my reading; but previously, and by way of transition, I thought best to say politely: "Wouldn't you like to have this review, madam ?" "Thank you, sir, I cannot read." Such was the answer that was promptly shot off at me in a brief tone of voice.

I made with my head and my hand a courteous gesture, by which I seemed to sympathize gently with the infirmity that was thus revealed to me, after which I sat down, feeling more easy.

I had drawn my adversary's fire.

Honor seemed to me satisfied.
Nevertheless, after a few moments of silence, I began again to feel the awkwardness of my situation; I strove in vain to become absorbed in my reading; I kept seeing a multitude of little bronzed slippers dancing all over the paper.

An open scene would have appeared to me decidedly preferable to this unpleasant and persistent proximity, to the mute hostility betrayed to my furtive glance by Madame de Palme's restless foot, the jingle of her rings on the marble mantel, and the quivering mobility of her nostrils.