“Come and have some sandwiches,” said Jacqueline, and she drew Giselle to the tea-table, with the kind intention apparently of making her feel more at her ease.  But she had another motive.  She saw some one who was very interesting to her coming at that moment toward the table.  That some one was a man about forty, whose pointed black beard was becoming slightly gray—­a man whom some people thought ugly, chiefly because they had never seen his somewhat irregular features illumined by a smile which, spreading from his lips to his eyes, lighted up his face and transformed it.  The smile of Hubert Marien was rare, however.  He was exclusive in his friendships, often silent, always somewhat unapproachable.  He seldom troubled himself to please any one he did not care for.  In society he was not seen to advantage, because he was extremely bored, for which reason he was seldom to be seen at the Tuesday receptions of Madame de Nailles; while, on other days, he frequented the house as an intimate friend of the family.  Jacqueline had known him all her life, and for her he had always his beautiful smile.  He had petted her when she was little, and had been much amused by the sort of adoration she had no hesitation in showing that she felt for him.  He used to call her Mademoiselle ma femme, and M. de Nailles would speak of him as “my daughter’s future husband.”  This joke had been kept up till the little lady had reached her ninth year, when it ceased, probably by order of Madame de Nailles, who in matters of propriety was very punctilious.  Jacqueline, too, became less familiar than she had been with the man she called “my great painter.”  Indeed, in her heart of hearts, she cherished a grudge against him.  She thought he presumed on the right he had assumed of teasing her.  The older she grew the more he treated her as if she were a baby, and, in the little passages of arms that continually took place between them, Jacqueline was bitterly conscious that she no longer had the best of it as formerly.  She was no longer as droll and lively as she had been.  She was easily disconcerted, and took everything ‘au serieux’, and her wits became paralyzed by an embarrassment that was new to her.  And, pained by the sort of sarcasm which Marien kept up in all their intercourse, she was often ready to burst into tears after talking to him.  Yet she was never quite satisfied unless he was present.  She counted the days from one Wednesday to another, for on Wednesdays he always dined with them, and she greeted any opportunity of seeing him on other days as a great pleasure.  This week, for example, would be marked with a white stone.  She would have seen him twice.  For half an hour Marien had been enduring the bore of the reception, standing silent and self-absorbed in the midst of the gay talk, which did not interest him.  He wished to escape, but was always kept from doing so by some word or sign from Madame de Nailles.  Jacqueline had been thinking:  “Oh! if he would only come and talk to us!” He was now drawing near them, and an instinct made her wish to rush up to him and tell him—­what should she tell him?  She did not know.  A few moments before so many things to tell him had been passing through her brain.