His courtesy, a certain respectfulness, as if he would not venture to touch the tips of her fingers, placed her more at her ease. She still disliked him, but there was no harm in his knowing what she read.
“Are you fond of reading?” asked Cecile.
“I do not read much: it is too great a delight for that; nor do I read everything that appears. I am too hard to please.”
“No....”
“I like his essays very much. They are written with such a wide outlook. They place one on such a deliciously exalted level....”
She suited her phrase with an expansive gesture; and her eyes lighted up.
Then she observed that he was following her attentively, with his respectfulness. And she recovered herself; she no longer wanted to talk to him about Emerson.
“It is very fine indeed,” was all she said, to close the conversation, in the most commonplace voice that she was able to assume. “May I give you some tea?”
“No, thank you, mevrouw; I never take tea at this time.”