At this moment Mrs. Tristram was interrupted; a servant stepped out upon the balcony and announced that there were visitors in the drawing-room.  When Newman’s hostess had gone in to receive her friends, Tom Tristram approached his guest.

“Don’t put your foot into this, my boy,” he said, puffing the last whiffs of his cigar.  “There’s nothing in it!”

Newman looked askance at him, inquisitive.  “You tell another story, eh?”

“I say simply that Madame de Cintre is a great white doll of a woman, who cultivates quiet haughtiness.”

“Ah, she’s haughty, eh?”

“She looks at you as if you were so much thin air, and cares for you about as much.”

“She is very proud, eh?”

“Proud?  As proud as I’m humble.”

“And not good-looking?”

Tristram shrugged his shoulders:  “It’s a kind of beauty you must be intellectual to understand.  But I must go in and amuse the company.”

Some time elapsed before Newman followed his friends into the drawing-room.  When he at last made his appearance there he remained but a short time, and during this period sat perfectly silent, listening to a lady to whom Mrs. Tristram had straightway introduced him and who chattered, without a pause, with the full force of an extraordinarily high-pitched voice.  Newman gazed and attended.  Presently he came to bid good-night to Mrs. Tristram.

“Who is that lady?” he asked.

“Miss Dora Finch.  How do you like her?”

“She’s too noisy.”

“She is thought so bright!  Certainly, you are fastidious,” said Mrs. Tristram.

Newman stood a moment, hesitating.  Then at last “Don’t forget about your friend,” he said, “Madame What’s-her-name? the proud beauty.  Ask her to dinner, and give me a good notice.”  And with this he departed.

Some days later he came back; it was in the afternoon.  He found Mrs. Tristram in her drawing-room; with her was a visitor, a woman young and pretty, dressed in white.  The two ladies had risen and the visitor was apparently taking her leave.  As Newman approached, he received from Mrs. Tristram a glance of the most vivid significance, which he was not immediately able to interpret.

“This is a good friend of ours,” she said, turning to her companion, “Mr. Christopher Newman.  I have spoken of you to him and he has an extreme desire to make your acquaintance.  If you had consented to come and dine, I should have offered him an opportunity.”

The stranger turned her face toward Newman, with a smile.  He was not embarrassed, for his unconscious sang-froid was boundless; but as he became aware that this was the proud and beautiful Madame de Cintre, the loveliest woman in the world, the promised perfection, the proposed ideal, he made an instinctive movement to gather his wits together.  Through the slight preoccupation that it produced he had a sense of a long, fair face, and of two eyes that were both brilliant and mild.