"'Oh yes it is, in England, I assure you,' says he. 'I'll show you my children presently; and you, have you any children?'
"'Alas! no,' I reply; 'I am a bachelor.'
"I remark that from time to time, just as the moon veils itself behind a passing cloud, the radiance of his brilliant and jovial physiognomy is eclipsed by the expression of a sadness immense, mysterious, infinite; this is followed by a look of angelic candor and sweetness and gentle heroism, that moves you strangely, even to the heart, and makes appeal to all your warmest and deepest sympathies—the look of a very masculine Joan of Arc! You don't know why, but you feel you would make any sacrifice for a man who looks at you like that, follow him to the death—lead a forlorn hope at his bidding.
"He does not exact from me anything so arduous as this, but passing round my neck his powerful arm, he says:
"'Come and drink some tea; I should like to present you to my wife.'
"And he leads me through another corridor to a charming drawing‑room that gives on to the green lawn of the garden.
"There are several people there taking the tea.
"He presents me first to Madame Josselin. If the husband is enormously handsome, the wife is a beauty absolutely divine; she, also, is very tall—très élégante; she has soft wavy black hair, and eyes and eyebrows d'un noir de jais, and a complexion d'une blancheur de lis, with just a point of carmine in the cheeks. She does not say much—she speaks French with difficulty; but she expresses with her smiling eyes so cordial and sincere a welcome that one feels glad to be in the same room with her, one feels it is a happy privilege, it does one good—one ceases to feel one may possibly be an intruder—one almost feels one is wanted there.
"I am then presented to three or four other ladies; and it would seem that the greatest beauties of London have given each other rendezvous in Madame Josselin's salon—this London, where are to be found the most beautiful women in the world and the ugliest.
"First, I salute the Countess of Ironsides—ah, mon Dieu, la Diane chasseresse—la Sapho de Pradier! Then Madame Cornelys, the wife of the great sculptor, who lives next door—a daughter of the ancient gods of Greece! Then a magnificent blonde, an old friend of theirs, who speaks French absolutely like a Frenchwoman, and says thee and thou to M. Josselin, and introduces me to her brother, un vrai type de colosse bon enfant, d'une tenue irréprochable [thank you, M. Paroly], who also speaks the French of France, for he was at school there—a school‑fellow of our host.