but the men they introduced her to were not to her taste. She had seen
no one who interested her in Paris, except perhaps M. Daveau. That
thick-set, black-bearded southern, with his subtle southern manner,
had appealed to her, in a way. But M. Daveau had been ordered suddenly
to Royon for gout and rheumatism, and Mildred was left without any one
to exercise her attractions upon. She spent evening after evening with
Mrs. Fargus, until the cropped hair, the spectacles, above all, the
black satin dress with the crimson scarf, getting more and more
twisted, became intolerable. And Mr. Fargus' cough and his vacuous
conversation, in which no shadow of an idea ever appeared, tried her
temper. But she forebore, seeing how anxious they were to please her.
That was the worst. These simple kind-hearted people saw that their
sitting-room bored Mildred, and they often took her for drives in the
Bois after dinner. Crazed with boredom Mildred cast side-long glances
of hatred at Mrs. Fargus, who sat by her side a mute little figure
lost in Comte. Mr. Fargus' sallow-complexioned face was always
opposite her; he uttered commonplaces in a loud voice, and Mildred
longed to fling herself from the carriage. At last, unable to bear
with reality, she chattered, laughed, and told stories and joked until
her morose friends wondered at her happiness. Her friends were her
audience; they sufficed to stimulate the histrionic spirit in her, and
she felt pleased like an actor who has amused an audience which he
despises.

She had now been in Paris seven months, but she had seen little of
Paris except the studio and the Bouillon Duval where she went to
breakfast with Elsie and Cissy. The spectacle of the Boulevards, the
trees and the cafes always the same, had begun to weary her. Her
health, too, troubled her a little, she was not very strong, and she
had begun to think that a change would do her good. She would return