XIV

2 0 00

XIV

Behold, the crowd begins to stir,

A whisper runs along the hall,

A lady draws the hostess near,

Behind her a grave general.

Her manners were deliberate,

Reserved, but not inanimate,

Her eyes no saucy glance address,

There was no angling for success.

Her features no grimaces bleared;

Of affectation innocent,

Calm and without embarrassment,

A faithful model she appeared

Of “comme il faut.” Shishkòff, forgive!

I can’t translate the adjective.