He was every bit as much a pig as this Emile. He did not leave much of an 17 impression. She lied. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. She had even played in an opera by Verdi once, but had to dress as a boy to do it. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said.
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