“So am I,” said Valentin to Newman.  “The marquis and I are charmed.  I can’t marry, myself, but I can understand it.  I can’t stand on my head, but I can applaud a clever acrobat.  My dear sister, I bless your union.”

The marquis stood looking for a while into the crown of his hat.  “We have been prepared,” he said at last “but it is inevitable that in face of the event one should experience a certain emotion.”  And he gave a most unhilarious smile.

“I feel no emotion that I was not perfectly prepared for,” said his mother.

“I can’t say that for myself,” said Newman, smiling but differently from the marquis.  “I am happier than I expected to be.  I suppose it’s the sight of your happiness!”

“Don’t exaggerate that,” said Madame de Bellegarde, getting up and laying her hand upon her daughter’s arm.  “You can’t expect an honest old woman to thank you for taking away her beautiful, only daughter.”

“You forgot me, dear madame,” said the young marquise demurely.

“Yes, she is very beautiful,” said Newman.

“And when is the wedding, pray?” asked young Madame de Bellegarde; “I must have a month to think over a dress.”

“That must be discussed,” said the marquise.

“Oh, we will discuss it, and let you know!” Newman exclaimed.

“I have no doubt we shall agree,” said Urbain.

“If you don’t agree with Madame de Cintre, you will be very unreasonable.”

“Come, come, Urbain,” said young Madame de Bellegarde, “I must go straight to my tailor’s.”

The old lady had been standing with her hand on her daughter’s arm, looking at her fixedly.  She gave a little sigh, and murmured, “No, I did not expect it!  You are a fortunate man,” she added, turning to Newman, with an expressive nod.

“Oh, I know that!” he answered.  “I feel tremendously proud.  I feel like crying it on the housetops,—­like stopping people in the street to tell them.”

Madame de Bellegarde narrowed her lips.  “Pray don’t,” she said.

“The more people that know it, the better,” Newman declared.  “I haven’t yet announced it here, but I telegraphed it this morning to America.”

“Telegraphed it to America?” the old lady murmured.

“To New York, to St. Louis, and to San Francisco; those are the principal cities, you know.  To-morrow I shall tell my friends here.”

“Have you many?” asked Madame de Bellegarde, in a tone of which I am afraid that Newman but partly measured the impertinence.

“Enough to bring me a great many hand-shakes and congratulations.  To say nothing,” he added, in a moment, “of those I shall receive from your friends.”

“They will not use the telegraph,” said the marquise, taking her departure.

M. de Bellegarde, whose wife, her imagination having apparently taken flight to the tailor’s, was fluttering her silken wings in emulation, shook hands with Newman, and said with a more persuasive accent than the latter had ever heard him use, “You may count upon me.”  Then his wife led him away.