There were large, majestic men, and small demonstrative men; there were ugly ladies in yellow lace and quaint jewels, and pretty ladies with white shoulders from which jewels and every thing else were absent.  Every one gave Newman extreme attention, every one smiled, every one was charmed to make his acquaintance, every one looked at him with that soft hardness of good society which puts out its hand but keeps its fingers closed over the coin.  If the marquis was going about as a bear-leader, if the fiction of Beauty and the Beast was supposed to have found its companion-piece, the general impression appeared to be that the bear was a very fair imitation of humanity.  Newman found his reception among the marquis’s friends very “pleasant;” he could not have said more for it.  It was pleasant to be treated with so much explicit politeness; it was pleasant to hear neatly turned civilities, with a flavor of wit, uttered from beneath carefully-shaped mustaches; it was pleasant to see clever Frenchwomen—­they all seemed clever—­turn their backs to their partners to get a good look at the strange American whom Claire de Cintre was to marry, and reward the object of the exhibition with a charming smile.  At last, as he turned away from a battery of smiles and other amenities, Newman caught the eye of the marquis looking at him heavily; and thereupon, for a single instant, he checked himself.  “Am I behaving like a d—­d fool?” he asked himself.  “Am I stepping about like a terrier on his hind legs?” At this moment he perceived Mrs. Tristram at the other side of the room, and he waved his hand in farewell to M. de Bellegarde and made his way toward her.

“Am I holding my head too high?” he asked.  “Do I look as if I had the lower end of a pulley fastened to my chin?”

“You look like all happy men, very ridiculous,” said Mrs. Tristram.  “It’s the usual thing, neither better nor worse.  I have been watching you for the last ten minutes, and I have been watching M. de Bellegarde.  He doesn’t like it.”

“The more credit to him for putting it through,” replied Newman.  “But I shall be generous.  I shan’t trouble him any more.  But I am very happy.  I can’t stand still here.  Please to take my arm and we will go for a walk.”

He led Mrs. Tristram through all the rooms.  There were a great many of them, and, decorated for the occasion and filled with a stately crowd, their somewhat tarnished nobleness recovered its lustre.  Mrs. Tristram, looking about her, dropped a series of softly-incisive comments upon her fellow-guests.  But Newman made vague answers; he hardly heard her, his thoughts were elsewhere.  They were lost in a cheerful sense of success, of attainment and victory.  His momentary care as to whether he looked like a fool passed away, leaving him simply with a rich contentment.  He had got what he wanted.  The savor of success had always been highly agreeable to him, and it had been his fortune to know it often.  But it had never