Littlemore gave a groan, without turning his head. “You’re always wanting to know if they’re respectable. What on earth can it matter?” “I’ve made such mistakes—I’ve lost all confidence,” said poor Waterville, to whom European civilisation had not ceased to be a novelty and who during the last six months had found himself confronted with problems for which his training had little prepared him. Whenever he encountered a very nice-looking woman he was sure to discover that she belonged to the class represented by the heroine of M. Augier’s drama; and whenever his attention rested upon a person of a florid style of attraction there was the strongest probability that she would turn out a countess. The countesses often looked so unnaturally cheap and the others unnaturally expensive. Littlemore distinguished at a glance; he never made mistakes. “Simply for looking at them it doesn’t matter, I suppose,” Waterville ingenuously sighed. “You stare at them all alike,” Littlemore went on, still without moving; “except indeed when I tell you they _aren’t_ decent—then your eyes, my dear man, grow as large as saucers.” “If your judgement’s against this lady I promise never to look at her again. I mean the one in the third box from the passage, in white, with the red flowers,” the younger man said as Littlemore slowly rose and stood beside him. “The fellow with her is leaning forward. It’s he who makes me doubt. Will you have the glass?” Littlemore looked about him without concentration. “No, thank you, I can see without staring. The young man’s a very good young man,” he presently reported. “Very indeed, but he’s several years younger than she. Wait till she turns her head.” She turned it very soon—she apparently had been speaking to the _ouvreuse_, at the door of the box—and presented her face to the public; a fair harmonious face, with smiling eyes, smiling lips, a low brow ornamented with delicate rings of black hair and ears marked by the sparkle of diamonds sufficiently large to be seen across the Théâtre Français. Littlemore looked at her, then started and held out his hand. “The glass, please!” “Do you know her?” his friend asked as he directed the little instrument. He made no answer; he only looked in silence; then he gave the glass back. “No, she’s not respectable.” And he dropped again into his seat. As Waterville remained standing he added: “Please sit down; I think she saw me.” “Don’t you want her to see you?” pursued the interrogator, promptly complying. Littlemore hesitated. “I don’t want to spoil her game.” By this time the _entr’acte_ was at an end and the curtain going up.