"They love it otherwise, too—In passion and in life. That depends on the women—and on men," she added, showing her white teeth while smiling graciously.
She dropped her spoon in the saucer and handed the sherbet to a servant. With an involuntary movement—or perhaps, after all, it was a shrewdly calculated one—she almost grazed Sulpice's cheek and lips when she extended her round and firm arm, and Sulpice, who was somewhat bewildered, was severely tempted, like some collegian, to kiss it in passage.
He closed his eyes and a moment after, on reopening them, the disturbing element having passed, he saw Marianne before him with her fan in her hand, and as if the image of which he spoke only now recurred to his memory, he said:
"Mademoiselle, it seems to me that in this very costume and as charming as you are at this moment, I have seen your portrait at the Salon; is it not so?"
"Yes," she said. "It is the very best painting that my uncle has produced."
"I thought it excellent before seeing you," said Sulpice, "but now—"
She did not feel satisfied with the smile that accompanied the compliment. She wished to hear the entire phrase.
"Now—?" said she, as a most seductive smile played on her lips.
"Now, I find it inferior to the original!"
"One always says so, your Excellency, except perhaps to the artist; but I was greatly afraid that you would not think me so, arrayed in this—this famous blue—this sky-blue that you love so much."