He had brought her a large bunch of early violets, for he knew that she was fond of flowers, and these lay upon her lap, against the opalescent grey of her gown.
She seemed a little nervous and agitated, his obvious admiration bringing a ready blush to her cheeks.
The room itself appeared to Armand to be a perfect frame for the charming picture which she presented.

The furniture in it was small and old; tiny tables of antique Vernis-Martin, softly faded tapestries, a pale-toned Aubusson carpet.

Everything mellow and in a measure pathetic.
Mademoiselle Lange, who was an orphan, lived alone under the duennaship of a middle-aged relative, a penniless hanger-on of the successful young actress, who acted as her chaperone, housekeeper, and maid, and kept unseemly or over-bold gallants at bay.
She told Armand all about her early life, her childhood in the backshop of Maitre Meziere, the jeweller, who was a relative of her mother's; of her desire for an artistic career, her struggles with the middle-class prejudices of her relations, her bold defiance of them, and final independence.
She made no secret of her humble origin, her want of education in those days; on the contrary, she was proud of what she had accomplished for herself.

She was only twenty years of age, and already held a leading place in the artistic world of Paris.
Armand listened to her chatter, interested in everything she said, questioning her with sympathy and discretion.

She asked him a good deal about himself, and about his beautiful sister Marguerite, who, of course, had been the most brilliant star in that most brilliant constellation, the Comedie Francaise.