“Ah, the way you remember what I say is at least very flattering.  But in future,” added Mrs. Tristram, “pray forget all the wicked things and remember only the good ones.  It will be easily done, and it will not fatigue your memory.  But I forewarn you that if you trust my husband to pick out your rooms, you are in for something hideous.”

“Hideous, darling?” cried Tristram.

“To-day I must say nothing wicked; otherwise I should use stronger language.”

“What do you think she would say, Newman?” asked Tristram.  “If she really tried, now?  She can express displeasure, volubly, in two or three languages; that’s what it is to be intellectual.  It gives her the start of me completely, for I can’t swear, for the life of me, except in English.  When I get mad I have to fall back on our dear old mother tongue.  There’s nothing like it, after all.”

Newman declared that he knew nothing about tables and chairs, and that he would accept, in the way of a lodging, with his eyes shut, anything that Tristram should offer him.  This was partly veracity on our hero’s part, but it was also partly charity.  He knew that to pry about and look at rooms, and make people open windows, and poke into sofas with his cane, and gossip with landladies, and ask who lived above and who below—­he knew that this was of all pastimes the dearest to Tristram’s heart, and he felt the more disposed to put it in his way as he was conscious that, as regards his obliging friend, he had suffered the warmth of ancient good-fellowship somewhat to abate.  Besides, he had no taste for upholstery; he had even no very exquisite sense of comfort or convenience.  He had a relish for luxury and splendor, but it was satisfied by rather gross contrivances.  He scarcely knew a hard chair from a soft one, and he possessed a talent for stretching his legs which quite dispensed with adventitious facilities.  His idea of comfort was to inhabit very large rooms, have a great many of them, and be conscious of their possessing a number of patented mechanical devices—­half of which he should never have occasion to use.  The apartments should be light and brilliant and lofty; he had once said that he liked rooms in which you wanted to keep your hat on.  For the rest, he was satisfied with the assurance of any respectable person that everything was “handsome.”  Tristram accordingly secured for him an apartment to which this epithet might be lavishly applied.  It was situated on the Boulevard Haussmann, on the first floor, and consisted of a series of rooms, gilded from floor to ceiling a foot thick, draped in various light shades of satin, and chiefly furnished with mirrors and clocks.  Newman thought them magnificent, thanked Tristram heartily, immediately took possession, and had one of his trunks standing for three months in his drawing-room.

One day Mrs. Tristram told him that her beautiful friend, Madame de Cintre, had returned from the country; that she had met her three days before, coming out of the Church of St. Sulpice; she herself having journeyed to that distant quarter in quest of an obscure lace-mender, of whose skill she had heard high praise.