The topics of the conversation were as explicitly in harmony with the
group-ideal as the perfectly fitting gloves of the men, or the smooth,
burnished waves of the women's hair. They talked of the last play at
the Francais, of the exhibitions then on view at the Petit Palais, of
a new tenor in the choir of the Madeleine, of the condition of the
automobile roads in the Loire country, of the restoration of the
stained glass at Bourges.
On such occasions, a good deal of Sylvia's attention being given to
modulating her voice and holding her hands and managing her skirts as
did the guests of the hour, she usually had an impression that the
conversation was clever. Once or twice, looking back, she had been
somewhat surprised to find that she could remember nothing of what had
been said. It occurred to her, fleetingly, that of so much talk, some
word ought to stick in her usually retentive memory; but she gave the
matter no more thought. She had also been aware, somewhat dimly, that
Austin Page was more or less out of drawing in the carefully composed
picture presented on those social afternoons. He had the inveterate
habit of being at his ease under all circumstances, but she had felt
that he took these great people with a really exaggerated lack of
seriousness, answering their chat at random, and showing no chagrin
when he was detected in the grossest ignorance about the latest move
of the French Royalist party, or the probabilities as to the winner
of the Grand Prix.
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