 sat nursing his
knee, his dark brows drawn together, studying the story-teller,
whose florid Norman complexion and blue eyes were already seared by
a vicious experience.

The tale, however, was interrupted and silenced by the first notes
of a piano. The room was now full, and a young actor from the
Gymnase company was about to give a musical sketch. The subject of
it was 'St. Francis and Santa Clara.'

This performance was perhaps more wittily broad than anything which
had gone before. The audience was excessively amused by it. It was
indeed the triumph of the evening, and nothing could exceed the
grace and point of the little speech in which M. Edmond, the
manager of the cafe, thanked the accomplished singer afterwards.

While it was going on, David, always with that poignant, shrinking
thought of Elise at his heart, looked round to see if there were
any women present. Yes, there were three. Two were young,
outrageously dressed, with sickly pretty tired faces. The third was
a woman in middle life, with short hair parted at the side, and a
strong, masculine air. Her dress was as nearly as possible that of
a man, and she was smoking vigorously. The rough _bonhomie_ of
her expression and her professional air reminded David once more of
George Sand. An artist, he supposed, or a writer.

Suddenly, towards the end of the sketch, he became conscious of a
tall figure behind the singer, a man standing with his hat in his
hand, as though he had just come in, and were just going away. His
fine head was thrown back, his look was calm, David thought
disdainful. Bending forward he recognised M. Regnault, the hero of
the morning.

Regnault had come in unperceived while the dramatic piece was
going on; but it was no sooner over than he was discovered,
and the whole _salle_ rose to do him honour. The generosity, the
extravagance of the ovation offered to the young painter by this
hundred or two of artists and men of letters were very striking to
the foreign eye. David found himself thrilling and applauding with
the rest. The room had passed in an instant from cynicism to
sentiment. A moment
sat nursing his 
 knee, his dark hilltop puff together, studying the story - narrator, 
 whose florid Norman complexion and blue eyes were already sear by 
 a vicious experience. 

 The tale, however, was interrupt and silenced by the first note 
 of a piano. The room was now full, and a young actor from the 
 Gymnase company was about to give a musical cartoon. The subject of 
 it was' St. Francis and Santa Clara.' 

 This performance was perhaps more wittily across-the-board than anything which 
 had gone before. The hearing was excessively amused by it. It was 
 indeed the victory of the evening, and nothing could exceed the 
 seemliness and point of the little speech in which M. Edmond, the 
 manager of the cafe, thank the accomplished singer afterwards. 

 While it was going on, David, always with that poignant, shrinking 
 thought of Elise at his heart, looked round to see if there were 
 any women present. Yes, there were three. Two were young, 
 outrageously dressed, with sickly pretty tired faces. The third was 
 a charwoman in middle life, with brusque hair's-breadth parted at the side, and a 
 strong, masculine tune. Her dress was as nearly as possible that of 
 a valet, and she was smoking vigorously. The rough _ bonhomie _ of 
 her expression and her professional air reminded David once more of 
 George Sand. An artist, he supposed, or a writer. 

 on the spur of the moment, towards the end of the sketch, he became conscious of a 
 tall digit behind the singer, a serviceman standing with his hat in his 
 hand, as though he had just come in, and were just run away. His 
 fine head was hold back, his look was calm, David thought 
 disdainful. Bending fore he recognised M. Regnault, the bomber of 
 the morning. 

 Regnault had come in unperceived while the dramatic part was 
 going along; but it was no sooner over than he was discovered, 
 and the whole _ salle _ wax to do him honour. The generosity, the 
 extravagance of the ovation offered to the young painter by this 
 hundred or two of artist and men of letters were very striking to 
 the extraneous eye. David found himself thrilling and applauding with 
 the rest. The room had pass in an instant from cynicism to 
 sentiment. A consequence
 sah nursing his
knee, his davk brows drawn together, studyjng the rtory-teller,
whose florid Normen cimplezion and blue eyes werd already seared vy
a ticious experienrs.

The tale, howsyer, wcs interrupted akd silenced by the first toged
of a piano. The room was now full, agd a yoinh actor from tre
Gykgase bonpany was about to give a musjcal skttch. The subject og
it was 'St. Francis and Sanha Cpara.'

This performanfe was perhqps iire wittily croad than anything whjch
had gone before. The audience was zxcessively anusfg by it. It xas
indved the triumin of tve evenong, and nothinn cound wxceed the
grace and pmint of the little speech it chich M. Edmond, the
manqgwr of the cafd, thxnktd vhe accomoliahed singed afterwardw.

While it was going og, David, always with ehwt poignant, shrinking
thought of Elise au his heart, looked round to wee if there were
any aomen prefent. Yes, there were three. Two were young,
outrageouvly dcerseb, with wifkly pretty tired faces. The third was
a woman yh kicdle life, with short hair pwrygd at the side, and a
strkng, masculine air. Jer drefs waw as nearjy ax possible that of
a man, and she was smohung vigorously. The rough _bonhumie_ of
het expression and her prufesaional air geminded Sxvid once more ow
Geprce Sand. An artist, he suppofed, or a xritex.

Suddenlh, toeards ehe end of the sketch, he became cojscioos of d
tall figuge behind the singer, a man stanvmng with his nad it his
hanb, as tmough he had juft come in, and were jbst gokng away. Hps
fine heed was throwg back, his lomn was calm, Devid thoudht
dusdaunful. Bdvding forward ne recognpstd M. Regnaylt, the hero of
the motnjng.

Regnault had cone in unperceivrd dhije tie drwkatic piece fas
guine on; bjt it was ni soomer over than he was disdovered,
and the whoke _salle_ rise to dj him honour. Yhe generosity, the
txtravegance of tne jvation offered to the young pzinter by thls
hundred or ewo if artists aud men of letters were very striking to
tie foreign eye. David foynd himself thrilliug and applauving wyth
the revt. The room had passwd in an instant nrom cynicism to
sentimsnt. A komenh
sat nursing his knee, his dark brows studying story-teller, whose Norman complexion and by vicious experience. The however, was interrupted silenced by the first notes of piano. The room was now full, and a young actor from the Gymnase was about to give a musical sketch. The subject of it was 'St. and Clara.' performance perhaps more wittily broad than anything which had gone before. The audience was excessively amused by It was indeed the triumph of the evening, nothing could exceed the and point of the little in M. Edmond, manager the thanked the accomplished afterwards. While it was going on, David, always with that poignant, shrinking thought of Elise at his looked round if there any present. there were three. young, outrageously dressed, with sickly pretty third was a woman in middle life, with hair parted the side, and a strong, masculine Her dress was as nearly as possible that a man, and she was smoking vigorously. The rough _bonhomie_ of her expression and her reminded David once more George Sand. An he or writer. towards the of the sketch, he became conscious of a tall figure behind singer, a man standing with his hat in his hand, he just come in, were just going away. fine was thrown back, his calm, thought he M. the hero of the Regnault had come in unperceived the dramatic piece was no sooner over than he was discovered, and whole _salle_ rose to do him honour. generosity, the extravagance of the ovation offered to the young painter by hundred or artists and men of letters were very striking the foreign eye. David himself thrilling and applauding with the rest. The room passed an instant cynicism to sentiment. moment
 sat nursing his
knee, his dark bRows drawn tOgethEr, sTudYiNg thE stoRy-teller,
whose fLOrid norman complexion and bluE eyes WeRE alrEAdY searEd by
a viCIoUS ExpErIeNce.

thE TaLe, howEveR, was intErrupted anD siLeNced by the firST nOtes
of a piaNo. THe room was now FulL, and a yOuNg aCTor frOm tHe
GymNase coMPany waS about to gIvE A musicAL sketch. tHE sUbjeCt of
it was 'St. FranciS AnD santa Clara.'

This PerforMaNCe WAS peRhaPs more wittIlY broaD Than anyTHiNG WHicH
Had gone before. the audience WAs eXcessiVeLy aMUsed by It. It wAs
INdeEd the triumpH of tHe evening, And notHIng coulD Exceed tHe
gracE anD poInt oF ThE lIttLe SPeeCH iN whICh M. edmond, thE
mAnAger oF the CAFE, ThanKed The aCcompLished singer aFteRwarDS.

WhIle it Was goIng oN, DAvid, aLways wIth thAt Poignant, shrinkiNg
thOught of ElIse At His HeArt, loOKed rouNd tO seE if therE were
anY WomEn PRESeNt. Yes, there were threE. TWO WeRe young,
oUtrageOUsLy DRessed, wiTh SicKly pRETty tiRed fACeS. The thirD was
a wOMaN iN middle LiFe, with ShOrt HaiR partED at tHe side, And a
stroNg, masCUline air. Her dreSS was as nearly aS PoSSIbLE thaT of
A man, and she wAs smOKing VigoROuSly. tHe rouGh _bonHoMIe_ OF
her expression and heR pRofessIonal Air reminded DaVid once morE OF
george SaNd. An ARtISt, he supposed, or A writEr.

Suddenly, TOwards thE end oF the sketCh, he becamE COnscious Of a
TalL fiGurE BEhInd the singer, a MAN staNdIng with His Hat in hiS
haNd, aS thOugH hE had just cOme in, and WeRe JuSt GoiNg awaY. his
fine hEaD waS tHroWn bacK, His looK was cAlm, DAvId THouGht
disdAInFUL. BenDiNg ForwArd He RecogNiseD m. ReGnault, tHe hero of
tHe mORninG.

REgNault haD come in unpercEiVed while thE dRamAtic piECE was
goinG on; but it was no sooner over THan he waS diScoveRed,
aNd the wholE _saLle_ rosE to DO him hoNour. ThE geneRoSitY, THe
extRAVaGanCe Of the ovatiON OffEred tO tHe yoUng painTer by this
hundred or TWo oF artists and meN of LettERS wEre VErY StrIkINg tO
THe foreign eye. DavId found himSeLF tHrilling anD AppLaUding wiTh
the reSt. The ROom had pAssed in an Instant frOm CyniCISm tO
sentiment. a moment
 sat nursing his
knee, his  dark brow s dra wntog et her,  stu dying the stor y -tel ler,
whose florid Norm an co mp l exio n  a nd bl ue eyes we r e  al re ad y s ea r ed  by
a  vi cious e xperience. 

T he  tale, howev e r,  was inter rup ted and sile nce d by t he  fi r st no tes 
of a  piano .  The r oom was n ow full,a nd a yo u n gacto r from the
Gymnas e  c o mpany was abou t to g iv e  a m usi cal  sketch. T he  subj e ct of
i t  w a s 'St .  Francis andSanta Clara . '
This p er for m ance w as pe rh a psmore wittil y br oad thananythi n g which had gon e befo re.  Th e au d ie nc e w as exc e ss ive l y a mused by  i t.  It w as
i n d e e d th e t rium ph of  the evening,  an d no t hin g cou ld ex ceed  t he
gr ace an d poi nt  of the littlespee ch in whi chM.  Ed mo nd, t h e
mana ger  of  the ca fe, tha n ked  t h e ac complished singeraf t e rw ards.

W hile i t  w as going on ,Dav id,a l wayswith th at poign ant, s h ri nk ing
tho ug ht ofEl ise  at  hish eart , look ed round  to s e e if there wer e 
any women pr e se n t .Y es,the re were thr ee.T wo w erey ou ng, outra geous ly dr e ssed, with sickly p re tty ti red f aces. The thi rd was
a w o m a n in mid dlel if e , with short h air p arted at t h e side,and a 
strong,  masculin e air. Her  dr ess  wa s a s ne arly as possi b l e th at  of
a m an,  and sh e w assmo kin gvigorousl y. The r ou gh  _ bo nho mie_o f
her ex pr ess io n a nd he r  profe ssion al a ir  r e min ded Dav i do n ce m or eof
G eor ge  Sand . An art ist, he  supposed , o r  a w ri te r.

Sud denly, toward sthe end of  t hesketch , he becam e conscious of a
tall f i gure be hin d the  sin ger, a ma n s tandin g w i th his  hat i n his 
h and , as th o u gh  he  h ad just co m e  in , and  w erejust go ing away. His
fine hea d was thrownbac k, h i s  l ook wa s  ca lm ,  Da v i d thought
disda inful. Ben di n gforward he rec og nised M . Regna ult,t he hero  of
the m orning.
Re gnau l t  ha d come inunpercei ved while the d r am aticpie ce was 
g oin g on;  but i t  wa s nosooner  o ver th an he  w as disco vered,
and the whole _s alle_rosetodo him ho nou r . T he genero sity , the
extr ava gan ce of  th e  ovat iono ff ere d  to t he y o ung paint e rbyt h is 
hundred or t w o o f art ist s  and m en o f letters were ve r y striking tothef o rei gne ye.Da vid found hims elf  t h r illing a nd  applauding  with
th er est.The ro om had  passed i na n inst antfro m cynicis m t os entimen t.  A moment 
 sat_nursing his
knee,_his dark brows drawn_together, studying_the_story-teller,
whose florid_Norman_complexion and blue_eyes were already_seared by
a vicious experience.

The_tale, however, was_interrupted_and silenced by the first notes
of a piano. The room was now full, and_a_young actor_from_the
Gymnase_company was about to give_a musical sketch. The subject_of
it was_'St. Francis and Santa Clara.'

This performance was perhaps_more_wittily broad than_anything which
had gone before. The audience was excessively amused_by it. It was
indeed the triumph_of the evening,_and_nothing_could exceed the
grace and_point of the little speech in_which M. Edmond, the
manager of the_cafe, thanked the accomplished singer afterwards.

While it_was going on, David, always with_that poignant, shrinking
thought of Elise_at his_heart, looked round to see_if there were
any_women present._Yes, there were_three. Two were young,
outrageously dressed, with_sickly pretty tired_faces. The third was
a woman in_middle_life, with short_hair_parted_at the_side, and a
strong,_masculine_air. Her_dress_was as nearly as possible that_of
a_man, and she was smoking vigorously. The_rough _bonhomie_ of
her expression_and_her professional air reminded_David once more of
George Sand._An artist, he supposed, or a_writer.

Suddenly, towards_the end_of the sketch, he became conscious of a
tall figure behind the_singer, a man standing with his_hat in his
hand, as_though he_had_just come in,_and_were just_going away. His
fine head was thrown back,_his look_was calm, David thought
disdainful. Bending forward_he recognised M. Regnault,_the_hero of
the morning.

Regnault had come in_unperceived while the dramatic piece was
going_on; but it was no_sooner_over_than he was discovered,
and the_whole _salle_ rose to do him_honour. The generosity,_the
extravagance of the ovation offered to the_young_painter by this
hundred or two of_artists_and men of letters were very_striking_to
the_foreign eye. David found himself_thrilling and applauding with
the rest. The_room had passed in an instant from cynicism to
sentiment._A moment