successively three dukes, three counts, and a baron.  These gentlemen bowed and smiled most agreeably, and Newman indulged in a series of impartial hand-shakes, accompanied by a “Happy to make your acquaintance, sir.”  He looked at Madame de Cintre, but she was not looking at him.  If his personal self-consciousness had been of a nature to make him constantly refer to her, as the critic before whom, in company, he played his part, he might have found it a flattering proof of her confidence that he never caught her eyes resting upon him.  It is a reflection Newman did not make, but we nevertheless risk it, that in spite of this circumstance she probably saw every movement of his little finger.  Young Madame de Bellegarde was dressed in an audacious toilet of crimson crape, bestrewn with huge silver moons—­thin crescent and full disks.

“You don’t say anything about my dress,” she said to Newman.

“I feel,” he answered, “as if I were looking at you through a telescope.  It is very strange.”

“If it is strange it matches the occasion.  But I am not a heavenly body.”

“I never saw the sky at midnight that particular shade of crimson,” said Newman.

“That is my originality; any one could have chosen blue.  My sister-in-law would have chosen a lovely shade of blue, with a dozen little delicate moons.  But I think crimson is much more amusing.  And I give my idea, which is moonshine.”

“Moonshine and bloodshed,” said Newman.

“A murder by moonlight,” laughed Madame de Bellegarde.  “What a delicious idea for a toilet!  To make it complete, there is the silver dagger, you see, stuck into my hair.  But here comes Lord Deepmere,” she added in a moment.  “I must find out what he thinks of it.”  Lord Deepmere came up, looking very red in the face, and laughing.  “Lord Deepmere can’t decide which he prefers, my sister-in-law or me,” said Madame de Bellegarde.  “He likes Claire because she is his cousin, and me because I am not.  But he has no right to make love to Claire, whereas I am perfectly disponible.  It is very wrong to make love to a woman who is engaged, but it is very wrong not to make love to a woman who is married.”

“Oh, it’s very jolly making love to married women,” said Lord Deepmere, “because they can’t ask you to marry them.”

“Is that what the others do, the spinsters?” Newman inquired.

“Oh dear, yes,” said Lord Deepmere; “in England all the girls ask a fellow to marry them.”

“And a fellow brutally refuses,” said Madame de Bellegarde.

“Why, really, you know, a fellow can’t marry any girl that asks him,” said his lordship.

“Your cousin won’t ask you.  She is going to marry Mr. Newman.”

“Oh, that’s a very different thing!” laughed Lord Deepmere.

“You would have accepted her, I suppose.  That makes me hope that after all you prefer me.”

“Oh, when things are nice I never prefer one to the other,” said the young Englishman.  “I take them all.”