Though her face was pretty she was pre-eminently dull and uninteresting without two ideas in her bird's head.

She was all greed and vanity, and could talk of nothing but the hope of getting an engagement in London: could he help her, or would Monsieur, referring to me, as a journalist get her some good puffs in advance?
Oscar promised everything gravely.
While we were supping inside, Oscar caught sight of the boy passing along the Boulevard.

At once he tapped on the window, loud enough to attract his attention.

Nothing loth, the boy came in, and the four of us had supper together--a strange quartette.
"Now, Frank," said Oscar, "compare the two faces and you will see the likeness," and indeed there was in both the same Greek beauty--the same regularity of feature, the same low brow and large eyes, the same perfect oval.
"I am telling my friend," said Oscar to Emilienne in French, "how alike you two are, true brother and sister in beauty and in the finest of arts, the art of living," and they both laughed.
"The boy is better looking," he went on to me in English.

"Her mouth is coarse and hard; her hands common, while the boy is quite perfect." "Rather dirty, don't you think ?" I could not help remarking.
"Dirty, of course, but that's nothing; nothing is so immaterial as colouring; form is everything, and his form is perfect, as exquisite as the David of Donatello.