He seemed morally to have turned a sort of somersault, and to find things looking differently in consequence.  He felt a sudden stiffening of his will and quickening of his reserve.  What in the world had he been thinking of when he fancied the duchess could help him, and that it would conduce to his comfort to make her think ill of the Bellegardes?  What did her opinion of the Bellegardes matter to him?  It was only a shade more important than the opinion the Bellegardes entertained of her.  The duchess help him—­that cold, stout, soft, artificial woman help him?—­she who in the last twenty minutes had built up between them a wall of polite conversation in which she evidently flattered herself that he would never find a gate.  Had it come to that—­that he was asking favors of conceited people, and appealing for sympathy where he had no sympathy to give?  He rested his arms on his knees, and sat for some minutes staring into his hat.  As he did so his ears tingled—­he had come very near being an ass.  Whether or no the duchess would hear his story, he wouldn’t tell it.  Was he to sit there another half hour for the sake of exposing the Bellegardes?  The Bellegardes be hanged!  He got up abruptly, and advanced to shake hands with his hostess.

“You can’t stay longer?” she asked, very graciously.

“I am afraid not,” he said.

She hesitated a moment, and then, “I had an idea you had something particular to say to me,” she declared.

Newman looked at her; he felt a little dizzy; for the moment he seemed to be turning his somersault again.  The little Italian prince came to his help:  “Ah, madam, who has not that?” he softly sighed.

“Don’t teach Mr. Newman to say fadaises,” said the duchess.  “It is his merit that he doesn’t know how.”

“Yes, I don’t know how to say fadaises,” said Newman, “and I don’t want to say anything unpleasant.”

“I am sure you are very considerate,” said the duchess with a smile; and she gave him a little nod for good-by with which he took his departure.

Once in the street, he stood for some time on the pavement, wondering whether, after all, he was not an ass not to have discharged his pistol.  And then again he decided that to talk to any one whomsoever about the Bellegardes would be extremely disagreeable to him.  The least disagreeable thing, under the circumstances, was to banish them from his mind, and never think of them again.  Indecision had not hitherto been one of Newman’s weaknesses, and in this case it was not of long duration.  For three days after this he did not, or at least he tried not to, think of the Bellegardes.  He dined with Mrs. Tristram, and on her mentioning their name, he begged her almost severely to desist.  This gave Tom Tristram a much-coveted opportunity to offer his condolences.