“That was before—­before this,” said Madame de Cintre.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Newman; “and, besides, I think I know.  He’s an honest little Englishman.  He came and told you what your mother was up to—­that she wanted him to supplant me; not being a commercial person.  If he would make you an offer she would undertake to bring you over and give me the slip.  Lord Deepmere isn’t very intellectual, so she had to spell it out to him.  He said he admired you ‘no end,’ and that he wanted you to know it; but he didn’t like being mixed up with that sort of underhand work, and he came to you and told tales.  That was about the amount of it, wasn’t it?  And then you said you were perfectly happy.”

“I don’t see why we should talk of Lord Deepmere,” said Madame de Cintre.  “It was not for that you came here.  And about my mother, it doesn’t matter what you suspect and what you know.  When once my mind has been made up, as it is now, I should not discuss these things.  Discussing anything, now, is very idle.  We must try and live each as we can.  I believe you will be happy again; even, sometimes, when you think of me.  When you do so, think this—­that it was not easy, and that I did the best I could.  I have things to reckon with that you don’t know.  I mean I have feelings.  I must do as they force me—­I must, I must.  They would haunt me otherwise,” she cried, with vehemence; “they would kill me!”

“I know what your feelings are:  they are superstitions!  They are the feeling that, after all, though I am a good fellow, I have been in business; the feeling that your mother’s looks are law and your brother’s words are gospel; that you all hang together, and that it’s a part of the everlasting proprieties that they should have a hand in everything you do.  It makes my blood boil.  That is cold; you are right.  And what I feel here,” and Newman struck his heart and became more poetical than he knew, “is a glowing fire!”

A spectator less preoccupied than Madame de Cintre’s distracted wooer would have felt sure from the first that her appealing calm of manner was the result of violent effort, in spite of which the tide of agitation was rapidly rising.  On these last words of Newman’s it overflowed, though at first she spoke low, for fear of her voice betraying her.  “No.  I was not right—­I am not cold!  I believe that if I am doing what seems so bad, it is not mere weakness and falseness.  Mr. Newman, it’s like a religion.  I can’t tell you—­I can’t!  It’s cruel of you to insist.  I don’t see why I shouldn’t ask you to believe me—­and pity me.  It’s like a religion.  There’s a curse upon the house; I don’t know what—­I don’t know why—­don’t ask me.  We must all bear it.  I have been too selfish; I wanted to escape from it.  You offered me a great chance—­besides my liking you.  It seemed good to change completely, to break, to go away.  And then I admired you.  But I can’t—­it has overtaken and