he
is about to enter and when he is inside.

At the moment of entering how many things does he utter without even
opening his mouth!

It may be by a slight wave of his hand, or by his plunging his fingers
many times into his hair, he sticks up or smoothes down his
characteristic bang.

Or he hums a French or an Italian air, merry or sad, in a voice which
may be either tenor, contralto, soprano or baritone.

Perhaps he takes care to see that the ends of his necktie are properly
adjusted.

Or he smoothes down the ruffles or front of his shirt or
evening-dress.

Or he tries to find out by a questioning and furtive glance whether
his wig, blonde or brown, curled or plain, is in its natural position.

Perhaps he looks at his nails to see whether they are clean and duly
cut.

Perhaps with a hand which is either white or untidy, well-gloved or
otherwise, he twirls his moustache, or his whiskers, or picks his
teeth with a little tortoise-shell toothpick.

Or by slow and repeated movements he tries to place his chin exactly
over the centre of his necktie.

Or perhaps he crosses one foot over the other, putting his hands in
his pockets.

Or perhaps he gives a twist to his shoe, and looks at it as if he
thought, "Now, there's a foot that is not badly formed."

Or according as he has come on foot or in a carriage, he rubs off or
he does not rub off the slight patches of mud which soil his shoes.

Or perhaps he remains as motionless as a Dutchman smoking his pipe.

Or perhaps he fixes his eyes on the door and looks like a soul escaped
from Purgatory and waiting for Saint Peter with the keys.

Perhaps he hesitates to pull the bell; perhaps he seizes it
negligently, precipitately, familiarly, or like a man who is quite
sure of himself.

Perhaps he pulls it timidly, producing a faint tinkle which is lost in
the silence of the apartments, as the first bell of matins in
winter-time, in a convent of Minims; or perhaps after having rung with
energy, he rings again impatient that the footman has not heard him.

Perhaps he exhales a delicate scent, as he chews a pastille.

Perhaps with a solemn air he takes a pinch of snuff, brushing off with
care the grains that might mar the whiteness of his linen.

Perhaps he looks around like a man estimating the value of the
staircase lamp, the balustrade, the carpet, as if he were a furniture
dealer or a contractor.

Perhaps this celibate seems a young or an old man, is cold