Canalis took a great deal of trouble in his anxiety to please Modeste; but though he was compliant enough with her, he fell back into his natural self with the others.
Modeste, pitiless for the ten martyrs she was making, begged Canalis to read some of his poems; she wanted, she said, a specimen of his gift for reading, of which she had heard so much.

Canalis took the volume which she gave him, and cooed (for that is the proper word) a poem which is generally considered his finest,--an imitation of Moore's "Loves of the Angels," entitled "Vitalis," which Monsieur and Madame Dumay, Madame Latournelle, and Gobenheim welcomed with a few yawns.
"If you are a good whist-player, monsieur," said Gobenheim, flourishing five cards held like a fan, "I must say I have never met a man as accomplished as you." The remark raised a laugh, for it was the translation of everybody's thought.
"I play it sufficiently well to live in the provinces for the rest of my days," replied Canalis.

"That, I think, is enough, and more than enough literature and conversation for whist-players," he added, throwing the volume impatiently on a table.
This little incident serves to show what dangers environ a drawing-room hero when he steps, like Canalis, out of his sphere; he is like the favorite actor of a second-rate audience, whose talent is lost when he leaves his own boards and steps upon those of an upper-class theatre..