There was nothing to remind him of a porter's lodge, as in most provincial salons; or of the greenroom of a theatre, as in many salons of Paris; nor yet, as he had feared, of a lecture-room.
There were five or six women--some pretty, all well bred--who, in adopting the habit of thinking, had not lost the habit of laughing, nor the desire to please.

But they all seemed subject to the same charm; and that charm was sovereign.

Madame de Tecle, half hidden on her sofa, and seemingly busied with her embroidery, animated all by a glance, softened all by a word.

The glance was inspiring; the word always appropriate.
Her decision on all points they regarded as final--as that of a judge who sentences, or of a woman who is beloved.
No verses were read that evening, and Camors was not bored.

In the intervals of the music, the conversation touched on the new comedy by Augier; the last work of Madame Sand; the latest poem of Tennyson; or the news from America.
"My dear Mopsus," M.des Rameures said to the cure, "you were about to read us your sermon on superstition last Thursday, when you were interrupted by that joker who climbed the tree in order to hear you better.