near our table. She too had the look of an actress.
Wiazewski's eyes followed her with keen scrutiny.
"A fine woman," I remarked.
He turned his eyes away from her.
"She is not my sort," he replied. "Far too cultured for my taste."
Then he again returned to the subject.
"Hetairism, yes. Yes, undoubtedly. But if it all depended upon me, I should wish for one slight restriction. … You see, one of the most genial types of womanhood is the wifely type: that of a woman faithful, trustworthy, absolutely your own. … It were desirable that such a type should not perish entirely. But I should wish her only as a class to contrast with others, and as a haven of rest, when wearied with those."
I was gazing at the pretty Frenchwoman; suddenly I saw a delighted expression flash over her striking and reposeful face, somewhat harem-like in its beauty. I instinctively followed her glance, and—not without somewhat of embarrassed astonishment—discovered Imszanski. He was just entering from the doorway, and going through the saloon,
