ice.

"One great principle," he said, "is that men should be judged by their
acts."

"And women?" asked Princess Seniavine, brusquely; "do you judge them by
their acts? And how do you know what they do?"

The sound of voices was mingled with the clear tintinabulation of
silverware. A warm air bathed the room. The roses shed their leaves on
the cloth. More ardent thoughts mounted to the brain.

General Lariviere fell into dreams.

"When public clamor has split my ears," he said to his neighbor, "I shall
go to live at Tours. I shall cultivate flowers."

He flattered himself on being a good gardener; his name had been given to
a rose. This pleased him highly.

Schmoll asked again if they knew the parable of the three rings.

The Princess rallied the Deputy.

"Then you do not know, Monsieur Garain, that one does the same things for
very different reasons?"

Montessuy said she was right.

"It is very true, as you say, Madame, that actions prove nothing. This
thought is striking in an episode in the life of Don Juan, which was
known neither to Moliere nor to Mozart, but which is revealed in an
English legend, a knowledge of which I owe to my friend James Russell
Lowell of London. One learns from it that the great seducer lost his time
with three women. One was a bourgeoise: she was in love with her husband;
the other was a nun: she would not consent to violate her vows; the
third, who had for a long time led a life of debauchery, had become ugly,
and was a servant in a den. After what she had done, after what she had
seen, love signified nothing to her. These three women behaved alike for
very different reasons. An action proves nothing. It is the mass of
actions, their weight, their sum total, which makes the value of the
human being."

"Some of our actions," said Madame Martin, "have our look, our face: they
are our daughters. Others do not resemble us at all."

She rose and took the General's arm.

On the way to the drawing-room the Princess said:

"Therese is right. Some actions do not express our real selves at all.
They are like the things we do in nightmares."

The nymphs of the tapestries smiled vainly in their faded beauty at the
guests, who did not see them.

Madame Martin served the coffee with her young cousin, Madame Belleme de
Saint-Nom. She complimented Paul Vence on what he had said at the table.

"You talked of Napoleon with a freedom of mind that is rare in the
conversations I hear. I