It seemed impossible that she should interest herself in the restoration of the Bourbons--they were all very well, but they weren't even English, let alone a county family.

I figured it out that she must have set her own village so much in order that there remained nothing but the setting in order of the rest of the world.

Her bored eyes wandered sleepily over the assemblage.

They seemed to have no preferences for any of them.

They rested on the vacuously Bonaparte prince, on the moribund German Jesuit to whom he was listening, on the darkly supple young Spanish priest, on the rosy-gilled English Passionist, on Radet, the writer of that article in the _Revue Rouge_, who was talking to a compatriot in one of the tall windows.