"Starry hand," he said, bowing, and pressing it softly.
"Where do you come from?" she asked, with that polite curiosity which implies no real interest.
"From the opera," he said, seating himself beside her.
"What were they giving?"
"'The Huguenots'—always the same."
"It is always beautiful."
"Do you remember?" he asked with a tender, caressing voice. "They were singing 'The Huguenots' on the evening when I was introduced to you."
"Yes, yes; I remember that evening," she said, with sudden melancholy.
"How horribly I displeased you that night, didn't I? The only thing to approach it was the tremendously delightful impression you made on me."