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"What is perfection?"
"Can you ask?" laughed Dale. "Behold!" And he pointed to me.
"That's cheap," said the lady. "I've heard Auguste say cleverer things."
"Who's Auguste?" asked Dale.
"Auguste," said I, "is the generic name of the clown in the French
Hippodrome."
"Oh, the Circus!" cried Dale.
"I'll be glad if you'll teach him to call it the Hippodrome, Mr. de
Gex," she remarked, with another of her slumberous glances.
"That will be one step nearer perfection," said I.
The short November twilight had deepened into darkness; the fire, which
was blazing when we entered, had settled into a glow, and the room was
lit by one shaded lamp. To me the dimness was restful, but Dale, who,
with the crude instincts of youth, loves glare, began to fidget, and
presently asked whether he might turn on the electric light. Permission
was given. My hostess invited me to smoke and, to hand her a box of
cigarettes which lay on the mantelpiece, I rose, bent over her while
she lit her cigarette from my match, and resuming an upright position,
became rooted to the hearthrug.


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