The topics of the conversation were as explicitly in harmony with the group-ideal as the perfectly fitting gloves of the men, or the smooth, burnished waves of the women’s hair.  They talked of the last play at the Francais, of the exhibitions then on view at the Petit Palais, of a new tenor in the choir of the Madeleine, of the condition of the automobile roads in the Loire country, of the restoration of the stained glass at Bourges.

On such occasions, a good deal of Sylvia’s attention being given to modulating her voice and holding her hands and managing her skirts as did the guests of the hour, she usually had an impression that the conversation was clever.  Once or twice, looking back, she had been somewhat surprised to find that she could remember nothing of what had been said.  It occurred to her, fleetingly, that of so much talk, some word ought to stick in her usually retentive memory; but she gave the matter no more thought.  She had also been aware, somewhat dimly, that Austin Page was more or less out of drawing in the carefully composed picture presented on those social afternoons.  He had the inveterate habit of being at his ease under all circumstances, but she had felt that he took these great people with a really exaggerated lack of seriousness, answering their chat at random, and showing no chagrin when he was detected in the grossest ignorance about the latest move of the French Royalist party, or the probabilities as to the winner of the Grand Prix.  She had seen in the corners of his mouth an inexplicable hidden imp of laughter as he gravely listened, cup in hand, to the remarks of the beautiful Mrs. William Winterton Perth about the inevitable promiscuity of democracy, and he continually displayed a tendency to gravitate into the background, away from the center of the stage where their deference for his name, fortune, and personality would have placed him.  Sylvia’s impression of him was far from being one of social brilliance, but rather of an almost wilful negligence.  She quite grew used to seeing him, a tall, distinguished figure, sitting at ease in a far corner, and giving to the scene a pleasant though not remarkably respectful attention.

On such an afternoon in January, the usual routine had been preserved.  The last of the callers, carrying off Mrs. Marshall-Smith with her, had taken an urbane, fair-spoken departure.  Sylvia turned back from the door of the salon, feeling a fine glow of conscious amenity, and found that Austin Page’s mood differed notably from her own.  He had lingered for a tete-a-tete, as was so frequently his habit, and now stood before the fire, his face all one sparkle of fun.  “Don’t they do it with true American fervor!” he remarked.  “It would take a microscope to tell the difference between them and a well-rehearsed society scene on the stage of the Francais!  That’s their model, of course.  It is positively touching to see old Colonel Patterson subduing his twang and shutting the lid down on his box of comic stories.  I should think Mrs. Patterson might allow him at least that one about the cowboy and the tenderfoot who wanted to take a bath!”