André Marcueil’s face, like his aphorism, left a sort of gap in the assembly; not, however, by its singularity, but – if it is possible to couple the two words – by its characteristic insignificance. It was as pale as his starched shirt fronts, and would almost have merged into the woodwork, pale in the electric light, had it not been for the inky fringe of his collar-fashion beard, and for his longish hair which he had curled, probably to conceal incipient baldness. His eyes were most likely black, but were certainly weak, for he concealed them behind the tinted lenses of gold-rimmed pince-nez. Marcueil was thirty years old, and of medium height, though by adopting a pronounced stoop he seemed to take pleasure in making himself seem even shorter than he was. His wrists were thin, and so hairy as to resemble exactly his frail, black-silk-encased ankles. His wrists and ankles alike gave rise to the supposition that he must be remarkably weak in his entire person, to judge at least by what one could see of it. He spoke slowly and in a deep voice, as though anxious to spare his breath. Had he owned a hunting permit his description would no doubt have read: chin: round; face: oval; nose: average; mouth: average; height: average. . . In fact Marcueil embodied so absolutely the average man that his very ordinariness became extraordinary.

The remark took on a pitifully ironic significance, whispered like a breath from the mouth of this little man. He obviously did not know what he was saying. He was not known to keep a mistress, and presumably the state of his health precluded love.

A “chilled silence” fell, and someone was about to change the subject when Marcueil continued:

“I am quite serious, gentlemen.”

“I thought,” minced the no longer youthful Pusice-Euprépie de Saint-Jurieu, “that love was a sentiment.”

“Perhaps so, madam,” replied Marcueil. “All we need is to agree on. . . what we mean by. . . a sentiment.”

“It is an impression upon the soul,” the cardinal hastened to say.

“I read something of the sort in my youth, in the spiritual philosophers,” added the senator.

“An enfeebled sensation,” said Bathybius. “Praised by the English Associationists!”

“I am nearly of the same opinion as the doctor,” said Marcueil. “It is an attenuated act, most likely; that is, not quite an act; or better still, a potential act.”

“If you accept that definition,” said Saint-Jurieu, “would the completed act exclude love?”

Henriette Cyne yawned ostentatiously.

“Certainly not,” said Marcueil.

The ladies thought they ought to be preparing to blush behind their fans, or to hide behind those fans the fact that they were not blushing.

“Certainly not,” he continued, “if each completed act is followed by another act that remains. . . sentimental in this respect – that it will only be completed sometime later.”

This time several people could not prevent themselves smiling.

Their host, amused by the unfolding of his paradox, seemed to grant them full license.