“But after all,” said Newman, “there is nothing to congratulate me upon.  It is not a triumph.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Tristram; “it is a great triumph.  It is a great triumph that she did not silence you at the first word, and request you never to speak to her again.”

“I don’t see that,” observed Newman.

“Of course you don’t; Heaven forbid you should!  When I told you to go on your own way and do what came into your head, I had no idea you would go over the ground so fast.  I never dreamed you would offer yourself after five or six morning-calls.  As yet, what had you done to make her like you?  You had simply sat—­not very straight—­and stared at her.  But she does like you.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“No, that is proved.  What will come of it remains to be seen.  That you should propose to marry her, without more ado, could never have come into her head.  You can form very little idea of what passed through her mind as you spoke; if she ever really marries you, the affair will be characterized by the usual justice of all human beings towards women.  You will think you take generous views of her; but you will never begin to know through what a strange sea of feeling she passed before she accepted you.  As she stood there in front of you the other day, she plunged into it.  She said ‘Why not?’ to something which, a few hours earlier, had been inconceivable.  She turned about on a thousand gathered prejudices and traditions as on a pivot, and looked where she had never looked hitherto.  When I think of it—­when I think of Claire de Cintre and all that she represents, there seems to me something very fine in it.  When I recommended you to try your fortune with her I of course thought well of you, and in spite of your sins I think so still.  But I confess I don’t see quite what you are and what you have done, to make such a woman do this sort of thing for you.”

“Oh, there is something very fine in it!” said Newman with a laugh, repeating her words.  He took an extreme satisfaction in hearing that there was something fine in it.  He had not the least doubt of it himself, but he had already begun to value the world’s admiration of Madame de Cintre, as adding to the prospective glory of possession.

It was immediately after this conversation that Valentin de Bellegarde came to conduct his friend to the Rue de l’Universite to present him to the other members of his family.  “You are already introduced,” he said, “and you have begun to be talked about.  My sister has mentioned your successive visits to my mother, and it was an accident that my mother was present at none of them.  I have spoken of you as an American of immense wealth, and the best fellow in the world, who is looking for something very superior in the way of a wife.”

“Do you suppose,” asked Newman, “that Madame de Cintre has related to your mother the last conversation I had with her?”