Words came readily, pleasantly from her pretty lips. It was evident,
too, that she was thoroughly familiar with the many authors whose
praises she was sounding. Yet I could not help feeling that she had
not much to say. The opinions she voiced were manifestly not her
own, as though she was reciting a well-mastered lesson. And I was
glad of it. "She's merely a girl, after all," I thought, fondly. "She's
the sweetest thing I ever knew, and her father is the man who
wrote those love-letters, and her mother is the celebrated beauty
with whom he was in love."
Whether the views she set forth were her own or somebody else's, I
could see that she relished uttering them. Also, that she relished
the euphony and felicity of her phrasing, which was certainly her
own. Whether she spoke from conviction or not, one thing seemed
indisputable: the atmosphere surrounding the books and authors
she named had a genuine fascination for her. There was a naive
sincerity in her rhetoric, and her delivery and gestures had a
rhythm that seemed to be akin to the rhythm of her movements in
the tennis-court
Miss Lazar passed by us, giving me a smiling look, which seemed
to say, "I knew you would sooner or later be in her company.
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