The Vicomtesse made as if she would lay the book that she was reading
on a small, round stand; but as she did so, she turned towards M. de
Nueil, and the volume, insecurely laid upon the edge, fell to the
ground between the stand and the sofa. This did not seem to disconcert
her. She looked up, bowing almost imperceptibly in response to his
greeting, without rising from the depths of the low chair in which she
lay. Bending forwards, she stirred the fire briskly, and stooped to
pick up a fallen glove, drawing it mechanically over her left hand,
while her eyes wandered in search of its fellow. The glance was
instantly checked, however, for she stretched out a thin, white,
all-but-transparent right hand, with flawless ovals of rose-colored
nail at the tips of the slender, ringless fingers, and pointed to a
chair as if to bid Gaston be seated. He sat down, and she turned her
face questioningly towards him. Words cannot describe the subtlety of
the winning charm and inquiry in that gesture; deliberate in its
kindliness, gracious yet accurate in expression, it was the outcome of
early education and of a constant use and wont of the graciousness of
life. These movements of hers, so swift, so deft, succeeded each other
by the blending of a pretty woman's fastidious carelessness with the
high-bred manner of a great lady.
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