benignity, said I, looking quietly in her eyes, that I expected.--
She was going to say something civil in return--but the lad came
into the shop with the gloves.--A propos, said I, I want a couple
of pairs myself.


THE GLOVES. PARIS.


The beautiful grisette rose up when I said this, and going behind
the counter, reach'd down a parcel and untied it: I advanced to
the side over against her: they were all too large. The beautiful
grisette measured them one by one across my hand.--It would not
alter their dimensions.--She begg'd I would try a single pair,
which seemed to be the least.--She held it open;--my hand slipped
into it at once.--It will not do, said I, shaking my head a
little.--No, said she, doing the same thing.

There are certain combined looks of simple subtlety,--where whim,
and sense, and seriousness, and nonsense, are so blended, that all
the languages of Babel set loose together, could not express them;-
-they are communicated and caught so instantaneously, that you can
scarce say which party is the infector. I leave it to your men of
words to swell pages about it--it is enough in the present to say
again, the gloves would not do; so, folding our hands within our
arms, we both lolled upon the counter--it was narrow, and there was
just room for the parcel to lay between us.

The beautiful grisette looked sometimes at the gloves, then
sideways to the window, then at the gloves,--and then at me. I was