Before he left with Madame de Beaumont he came into the sitting-room
where I was standing, looking out of the window, to bid me good-bye.
He wore a traveling costume of a becoming gray color, and held his hat
in one gloved hand. I heard him come in, but purposely did not look
around. As he was generally engaged with business of his own when he
went in or out of a room, I was not supposed to know that, on this
particular occasion, he was making a flattering exception for me. I
went on biting my lips abstractedly, with my head leaning against the
casement. He cleared his throat emphatically, but what was that to me?
"Ahem" was not enough like either of my names, to justify my looking
around.
He walked to the mantel-piece and inspected its familiar furnishings
for a moment, making what seemed to me unnecessary noise and fuss as
he did so. I would have given worlds for a pair of keen eyes at the
back of my head during this artful performance, but as no such
abnormal desire could be favored, I had to be satisfied with my
conjectures and suppositions about his motives, and the various
expressions that were chasing one another over his face as he went
through this programme of failures.
At last, having spent his every indirect effort to attract my absorbed
attention, he took a book from the table, and placing it deliberately
under his arm, as if it were one of the many things that brought him
into the room, he strode quietly towards me, saying in a very
non-committal and yet courteous tone.
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