[Behind the Man and his Wife come the Man's Friends. The latter are uniformly like one another, with aristocratic faces, high, open foreheads, and candid eyes. They move with dignity—expanding their chests, setting down their feet with firmness and assurance, and gazing from side to side with faintly condescending smiles. They wear white buttonholes.
[Following them at a respectful distance come the Man's Enemies. These also bear a strong general resemblance to one another—their faces being vicious and cunning, their brows low and beetling, and their hands slender and apelike. They move as though ill at ease—jostling one another, hunching their shoulders, hiding behind one another, and throwing sharp, mean, envious glances about them. They wear yellow buttonholes.
[In this manner the procession moves slowly across the salon, without a word being spoken by any one of its members. The sound of their footsteps, combined with the strains of the musicians and the acclamations of the guests, gives rise to a sort of confused, discordant din.
Acclamations of the Guests.
There they are! There they are! What an honour for us!
How handsome he is!
What a manly face!
Look, look!
Yet he does not deign us even a glance!
No; although we are his guests!