it was impossible to be idle.  I have been very easy to others, and to myself.  I have done most of the things that people asked me—­I don’t mean rascals.  As regards your mother and your brother,” Newman added, “there is only one point upon which I feel that I might quarrel with them.  I don’t ask them to sing my praises to you, but I ask them to let you alone.  If I thought they talked ill of me to you, I should come down upon them.”

“They have let me alone, as you say.  They have not talked ill of you.”

“In that case,” cried Newman, “I declare they are only too good for this world!”

Madame de Cintre appeared to find something startling in his exclamation.  She would, perhaps, have replied, but at this moment the door was thrown open and Urbain de Bellegarde stepped across the threshold.  He appeared surprised at finding Newman, but his surprise was but a momentary shadow across the surface of an unwonted joviality.  Newman had never seen the marquis so exhilarated; his pale, unlighted countenance had a sort of thin transfiguration.  He held open the door for some one else to enter, and presently appeared old Madame de Bellegarde, leaning on the arm of a gentleman whom Newman had not seen before.  He had already risen, and Madame de Cintre rose, as she always did before her mother.  The marquis, who had greeted Newman almost genially, stood apart, slowly rubbing his hands.  His mother came forward with her companion.  She gave a majestic little nod at Newman, and then she released the strange gentleman, that he might make his bow to her daughter.

“My daughter,” she said, “I have brought you an unknown relative, Lord Deepmere.  Lord Deepmere is our cousin, but he has done only to-day what he ought to have done long ago—­come to make our acquaintance.”

Madame de Cintre smiled, and offered Lord Deepmere her hand.  “It is very extraordinary,” said this noble laggard, “but this is the first time that I have ever been in Paris for more than three or four weeks.”

“And how long have you been here now?” asked Madame de Cintre.

“Oh, for the last two months,” said Lord Deepmere.

These two remarks might have constituted an impertinence; but a glance at Lord Deepmere’s face would have satisfied you, as it apparently satisfied Madame de Cintre, that they constituted only a naivete.  When his companions were seated, Newman, who was out of the conversation, occupied himself with observing the newcomer.  Observation, however, as regards Lord Deepmere’s person; had no great range.  He was a small, meagre man, of some three and thirty years of age, with a bald head, a short nose and no front teeth in the upper jaw; he had round, candid blue eyes, and several pimples on his chin.  He was evidently very shy, and he laughed a great deal, catching his breath with an odd, startling sound, as the most convenient imitation of repose.  His physiognomy denoted great simplicity, a certain amount