“That’s a comfort,” said Newman, placidly.  “I like people to know about me.”

A few days after this, one dusky autumn afternoon, he went again to the Rue de l’Universite.  The early evening had closed in as he applied for admittance at the stoutly guarded Hotel de Bellegarde.  He was told that Madame de Cintre was at home; he crossed the court, entered the farther door, and was conducted through a vestibule, vast, dim, and cold, up a broad stone staircase with an ancient iron balustrade, to an apartment on the second floor.  Announced and ushered in, he found himself in a sort of paneled boudoir, at one end of which a lady and gentleman were seated before the fire.  The gentleman was smoking a cigarette; there was no light in the room save that of a couple of candles and the glow from the hearth.  Both persons rose to welcome Newman, who, in the firelight, recognized Madame de Cintre.  She gave him her hand with a smile which seemed in itself an illumination, and, pointing to her companion, said softly, “My brother.”  The gentleman offered Newman a frank, friendly greeting, and our hero then perceived him to be the young man who had spoken to him in the court of the hotel on his former visit and who had struck him as a good fellow.

“Mrs. Tristram has spoken to me a great deal of you,” said Madame de Cintre gently, as she resumed her former place.

Newman, after he had seated himself, began to consider what, in truth, was his errand.  He had an unusual, unexpected sense of having wandered into a strange corner of the world.  He was not given, as a general thing, to anticipating danger, or forecasting disaster, and he had had no social tremors on this particular occasion.  He was not timid and he was not impudent.  He felt too kindly toward himself to be the one, and too good-naturedly toward the rest of the world to be the other.  But his native shrewdness sometimes placed his ease of temper at its mercy; with every disposition to take things simply, it was obliged to perceive that some things were not so simple as others.  He felt as one does in missing a step, in an ascent, where one expected to find it.  This strange, pretty woman, sitting in fire-side talk with her brother, in the gray depths of her inhospitable-looking house—­what had he to say to her?  She seemed enveloped in a sort of fantastic privacy; on what grounds had he pulled away the curtain?  For a moment he felt as if he had plunged into some medium as deep as the ocean, and as if he must exert himself to keep from sinking.  Meanwhile he was looking at Madame de Cintre, and she was settling herself in her chair and drawing in her long dress and turning her face towards him.  Their eyes met; a moment afterwards she looked away and motioned to her brother to put a log on the fire.  But the moment, and the glance which traversed it, had been sufficient to relieve Newman of the first and the last fit of personal embarrassment he was ever to know.  He performed the movement which was so frequent with him, and which was always a sort of symbol of his taking mental possession of a scene—­he extended his legs.  The impression Madame de Cintre had made upon him on their first meeting came back in an instant; it had been deeper than he knew.  She was pleasing, she was interesting; he had opened a book and the first lines held his attention.