One engraving,
over the mantelpiece and nearer earth than the rest, unmistakably
showed Louis Philippe and his family in attitudes of virtue.
Beneath this royal group, a vast gilt clock, flanked by pendants
of the same period, gave the right time--a quarter past seven.
And down the room, filling it, ran the great white table, bordered
with bowed heads and the backs of chairs. There were over thirty
people at the table, and the peculiarly restrained noisiness of
their knives and forks on the plates proved that they were a
discreet and a correct people. Their clothes--blouses, bodices,
and jackets--did not flatter the lust of the eye. Only two or
three were in evening dress. They spoke little, and generally in a
timorous tone, as though silence had been enjoined. Somebody would
half-whisper a remark, and then his neighbour, absently fingering
her bread and lifting gaze from her plate into vacancy, would
conscientiously weigh the remark and half-whisper in reply: "I
dare say." But a few spoke loudly and volubly, and were regarded
by the rest, who envied them, as underbred.
Food was quite properly the chief preoccupation. The diners ate as
those eat who are paying a fixed price per day for as much as they
can consume while observing the rules of the game.
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