Valentin stood looking from his sister to our hero.  “I hope you both reflected seriously,” he said.

Madame de Cintre smiled.  “We have neither your powers of reflection nor your depth of seriousness; but we have done our best.”

“Well, I have a great regard for each of you,” Valentin continued.  “You are charming young people.  But I am not satisfied, on the whole, that you belong to that small and superior class—­that exquisite group composed of persons who are worthy to remain unmarried.  These are rare souls; they are the salt of the earth.  But I don’t mean to be invidious; the marrying people are often very nice.”

“Valentin holds that women should marry, and that men should not,” said Madame de Cintre.  “I don’t know how he arranges it.”

“I arrange it by adoring you, my sister,” said Valentin ardently.  “Good-by.”

“Adore some one whom you can marry,” said Newman.  “I will arrange that for you some day.  I foresee that I am going to turn apostle.”

Valentin was on the threshold; he looked back a moment with a face that had turned grave.  “I adore some one I can’t marry!” he said.  And he dropped the portiere and departed.

“They don’t like it,” said Newman, standing alone before Madame de Cintre.

“No,” she said, after a moment; “they don’t like it.”

“Well, now, do you mind that?” asked Newman.

“Yes!” she said, after another interval.

“That’s a mistake.”

“I can’t help it.  I should prefer that my mother were pleased.”

“Why the deuce,” demanded Newman, “is she not pleased?  She gave you leave to marry me.”

“Very true; I don’t understand it.  And yet I do ‘mind it,’ as you say.  You will call it superstitious.”

“That will depend upon how much you let it bother you.  Then I shall call it an awful bore.”

“I will keep it to myself,” said Madame de Cintre, “It shall not bother you.”  And then they talked of their marriage-day, and Madame de Cintre assented unreservedly to Newman’s desire to have it fixed for an early date.

Newman’s telegrams were answered with interest.  Having dispatched but three electric missives, he received no less than eight gratulatory bulletins in return.  He put them into his pocket-book, and the next time he encountered old Madame de Bellegarde drew them forth and displayed them to her.  This, it must be confessed, was a slightly malicious stroke; the reader must judge in what degree the offense was venial.  Newman knew that the marquise disliked his telegrams, though he could see no sufficient reason for it.  Madame de Cintre, on the other hand, liked them, and, most of them being of a humorous cast, laughed at them immoderately, and inquired into the character of their authors.  Newman, now that his prize was gained, felt a peculiar desire that his triumph should be manifest.  He more than suspected that the Bellegardes were keeping quiet about it,