She laid her hand on the balustrade and prepared to ascend the stairs, fixing her eyes on the first step.

“Yes, I shall be at home on Friday,” and she passed up the wide dusky staircase.

On the Friday, as soon as he came in, she asked him to please to tell her why he disliked her family.

“Dislike your family?” he exclaimed.  “That has a horrid sound.  I didn’t say so, did I?  I didn’t mean it, if I did.”

“I wish you would tell me what you think of them,” said Madame de Cintre.

“I don’t think of any of them but you.”

“That is because you dislike them.  Speak the truth; you can’t offend me.”

“Well, I don’t exactly love your brother,” said Newman.  “I remember now.  But what is the use of my saying so?  I had forgotten it.”

“You are too good-natured,” said Madame de Cintre gravely.  Then, as if to avoid the appearance of inviting him to speak ill of the marquis, she turned away, motioning him to sit down.

But he remained standing before her and said presently, “What is of much more importance is that they don’t like me.”

“No—­they don’t,” she said.

“And don’t you think they are wrong?” Newman asked.  “I don’t believe I am a man to dislike.”

“I suppose that a man who may be liked may also be disliked.  And my brother—­my mother,” she added, “have not made you angry?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“You have never shown it.”

“So much the better.”

“Yes, so much the better.  They think they have treated you very well.”

“I have no doubt they might have handled me much more roughly,” said Newman.  “I am much obliged to them.  Honestly.”

“You are generous,” said Madame de Cintre.  “It’s a disagreeable position.”

“For them, you mean.  Not for me.”

“For me,” said Madame de Cintre.

“Not when their sins are forgiven!” said Newman.  “They don’t think I am as good as they are.  I do.  But we shan’t quarrel about it.”

“I can’t even agree with you without saying something that has a disagreeable sound.  The presumption was against you.  That you probably don’t understand.”

Newman sat down and looked at her for some time.  “I don’t think I really understand it.  But when you say it, I believe it.”

“That’s a poor reason,” said Madame de Cintre, smiling.

“No, it’s a very good one.  You have a high spirit, a high standard; but with you it’s all natural and unaffected; you don’t seem to have stuck your head into a vise, as if you were sitting for the photograph of propriety.  You think of me as a fellow who has had no idea in life but to make money and drive sharp bargains.  That’s a fair description of me, but it is not the whole story.  A man ought to care for something else, though I don’t know exactly what.  I cared for money-making, but I never cared particularly for the money.  There was nothing else to do, and