Swann was at home in the winter months between six and seven) a black butterfly, its wings powdered with snow. Even this last drawing-room, which was not a “salon” at all, she considered, albeit out of bounds for herself, permissible to me, on account of the “clever people” to be found there. But Mme. de Luxembourg! Had I already produced something that had attracted attention, she would have concluded that an element of snobbishness may be combined with talent. But I put the finishing touch to her disillusionment; I confessed to her that I did not go to Mme. de Montmorency’s (as she supposed) to “take notes” and “make a study.” Mme. de Guermantes was in this respect no more in error than the social novelists who analyse mercilessly from outside the actions of a snob or supposed snob, but never place themselves in his position, at the moment when a whole social springtime is bursting into blossom in his imagination. I myself, when I sought to discover what was the great pleasure that I found in going to Mme.