"Ah! confidences?" Entragues told himself. "This is excellent. He belongs to those whose heart overflows with sentiment as a brook under a heavy rain, and he is going to tell me his life. Perfect. I am conscious of a mischievous curiosity. How I will enjoy it!"
A slight quiver of joy coursed through him, and his fingers twisted through nervousness.
"Isn't she?"
"Are you speaking of Madame Magne? I have known her only a short while. She is an intelligent woman."
"It is evident," Moscowitch rejoined, "that her beauty, her charm, and her grace have not made a strong impression on you. It is surprising."
"Why so? The sympathies of any group do not necessarily go to the same woman, though she have intelligence and an Aspasian beauty. The charm that has captivated you does not exist for me, or exists only in a less degree."
"Ah! you reason like a very sensible Frenchman. As for myself, I believe I am incapable of reasoning on this point."
"This does not prevent me," Entragues returned, "from doing justice to her qualities. She is, to put it simply, a complete woman. This word, which implies everything and specifies nothing, is appropriate, for I believe her to be very flexible, and made to pattern herself, like the ivy, on the oak to which she will cling."
"I hope," Entragues reflected, "that I speak clearly and with an abundance of commonplaces, for I wish to be understood."
After a brief silence, Moscowitch slowly uttered these words which he seemed to be repeating to himself: