"There are serious people also in France," said she confusedly. He looked at her honest little face, with its broad forehead, little straight nose, delicate chin, and thin cheeks framed in her chestnut hair. It was not she that he saw: he was thinking of the beautiful actress. He repeated:
"It is strange that you should be French!… Are you really of the same nationality as Ophelia? One would never think it"
After a moment's silence he went on:
"How beautiful she is!" without noticing that he seemed to be making a comparison between the actress and his companion that was not at all flattering to her. But she felt it: but she did not mind: for she was of the same opinion. He tried to find out about the actress from her: but she knew nothing: it was plain that she did not know much about the theater.
"You must be glad to hear French?" he asked. He meant it in jest, but he touched her.
"Ah!" she said with an accent of sincerity which struck him, "it does me so much good! I am stifled here."
He looked at her more closely: she clasped her hands, and seemed to be oppressed. But at once she thought of how her words might hurt him:
"Forgive me," she said. "I don't know what I am saying."
He laughed:
"Don't beg pardon! You are quite right. You don't need to be French to be stifled here. Ouf!"