During this speech, the longest that Newman had ever made, Madame de Cintre kept her gaze fixed upon him, and it expanded at the last into a sort of fascinated stare.  When he ceased speaking she lowered her eyes and sat for some moments looking down and straight before her.  Then she slowly rose to her feet, and a pair of exceptionally keen eyes would have perceived that she was trembling a little in the movement.  She still looked extremely serious.  “I am very much obliged to you for your offer,” she said.  “It seems very strange, but I am glad you spoke without waiting any longer.  It is better the subject should be dismissed.  I appreciate all you say; you do me great honor.  But I have decided not to marry.”

“Oh, don’t say that!” cried Newman, in a tone absolutely naif from its pleading and caressing cadence.  She had turned away, and it made her stop a moment with her back to him.  “Think better of that.  You are too young, too beautiful, too much made to be happy and to make others happy.  If you are afraid of losing your freedom, I can assure you that this freedom here, this life you now lead, is a dreary bondage to what I will offer you.  You shall do things that I don’t think you have ever thought of.  I will take you anywhere in the wide world that you propose.  Are you unhappy?  You give me a feeling that you are unhappy.  You have no right to be, or to be made so.  Let me come in and put an end to it.”

Madame de Cintre stood there a moment longer, looking away from him.  If she was touched by the way he spoke, the thing was conceivable.  His voice, always very mild and interrogative, gradually became as soft and as tenderly argumentative as if he had been talking to a much-loved child.  He stood watching her, and she presently turned round again, but this time she did not look at him, and she spoke in a quietness in which there was a visible trace of effort.

“There are a great many reasons why I should not marry,” she said, “more than I can explain to you.  As for my happiness, I am very happy.  Your offer seems strange to me, for more reasons also than I can say.  Of course you have a perfect right to make it.  But I cannot accept it—­it is impossible.  Please never speak of this matter again.  If you cannot promise me this, I must ask you not to come back.”

“Why is it impossible?” Newman demanded.  “You may think it is, at first, without its really being so.  I didn’t expect you to be pleased at first, but I do believe that if you will think of it a good while, you may be satisfied.”

“I don’t know you,” said Madame de Cintre.  “Think how little I know you.”

“Very little, of course, and therefore I don’t ask for your ultimatum on the spot.  I only ask you not to say no, and to let me hope.  I will wait as long as you desire.  Meanwhile you can see more of me and know me better, look at me as a possible husband—­as a candidate—­and make up your mind.”