While continuing the process of making up his face, the longest, the
most complicated of his morning occupations, Monpavon chatted with the
doctor, told of his little ailments, and the good effect of the _pills_.
They made him young again, he said. And at a distance, thus, without
seeing him, one would have taken him for the Duc de Mora, to such
a degree had he usurped his manner of speech. There were the same
unfinished phrases, ended by "ps, ps, ps," muttered between the teeth,
expressions like "What's its name?" "Who was it?" constantly thrown into
what he was saying, a kind of aristocratic stutter, fatigued, listless,
wherein you might perceive a profound contempt for the vulgar art of
speech. In the society of which the duke was the centre, every one
sought to imitate that accent, those disdainful intonations with an
affectation of simplicity.

Jenkins, finding the sitting rather long, had risen to take his
departure.

"Adieu, I must be off. We shall see you at the Nabob's?"

"Yes, I intend to be there for luncheon. Promised to bring him--what's
his name. Who was it? What? You know, for our big affair--ps, ps, ps.
Were it not for that, should gladly stay away. Real menagerie, that
house."

The Irishman, despite his benevolence, agreed that the society was
rather mixed at his friend's. But then! One could hardly blame him for
it. The poor fellow, he knew no better.

"Neither knows nor is willing to learn," remarked Monpavon with
bitterness. "Instead of consulting people of experience--ps, ps,