“What a checkered career!” said Newman.  “Are you very fond of children?” He was certain that she was, but he wished to make her say it.

“I like to talk with them,” she answered; “we can talk with them so much more seriously than with grown persons.  That is great nonsense that I have been telling Blanche, but it is a great deal more serious than most of what we say in society.”

“I wish you would talk to me, then, as if I were Blanche’s age,” said Newman, laughing.  “Were you happy at your ball, the other night?”

“Ecstatically!”

“Now you are talking the nonsense that we talk in society,” said Newman.  “I don’t believe that.”

“It was my own fault if I was not happy.  The ball was very pretty, and every one very amiable.”

“It was on your conscience,” said Newman, “that you had annoyed your mother and your brother.”

Madame de Cintre looked at him a moment without answering.  “That is true,” she replied at last.  “I had undertaken more than I could carry out.  I have very little courage; I am not a heroine.”  She said this with a certain soft emphasis; but then, changing her tone, “I could never have gone through the sufferings of the beautiful Florabella,” she added, not even for her prospective rewards.

Dinner was announced, and Newman betook himself to the side of the old Madame de Bellegarde.  The dining-room, at the end of a cold corridor, was vast and sombre; the dinner was simple and delicately excellent.  Newman wondered whether Madame de Cintre had had something to do with ordering the repast and greatly hoped she had.  Once seated at table, with the various members of the ancient house of Bellegarde around him, he asked himself the meaning of his position.  Was the old lady responding to his advances?  Did the fact that he was a solitary guest augment his credit or diminish it?  Were they ashamed to show him to other people, or did they wish to give him a sign of sudden adoption into their last reserve of favor?  Newman was on his guard; he was watchful and conjectural; and yet at the same time he was vaguely indifferent.  Whether they gave him a long rope or a short one he was there now, and Madame de Cintre was opposite to him.  She had a tall candlestick on each side of her; she would sit there for the next hour, and that was enough.  The dinner was extremely solemn and measured; he wondered whether this was always the state of things in “old families.”  Madame de Bellegarde held her head very high, and fixed her eyes, which looked peculiarly sharp in her little, finely-wrinkled white face, very intently upon the table-service.  The marquis appeared to have decided that the fine arts offered a safe subject of conversation, as not leading to startling personal revelations.  Every now and then, having learned from Newman that he had been through the museums of Europe, he uttered some polished aphorism upon the flesh-tints of Rubens and the good taste of Sansovino.  His manners