“You ought to show more of your shoulders behind,” he said very gravely.  “You might as well wear a standing ruff as such a dress as that.”

The young woman turned her back to the mirror over the chimney-piece, and glanced behind her, to verify Valentin’s assertion.  The mirror descended low, and yet it reflected nothing but a large unclad flesh surface.  The young marquise put her hands behind her and gave a downward pull to the waist of her dress.  “Like that, you mean?” she asked.

“That is a little better,” said Bellegarde in the same tone, “but it leaves a good deal to be desired.”

“Oh, I never go to extremes,” said his sister-in-law.  And then, turning to Madame de Bellegarde, “What were you calling me just now, madame?”

“I called you a gad-about,” said the old lady.  “But I might call you something else, too.”

“A gad-about?  What an ugly word!  What does it mean?”

“A very beautiful person,” Newman ventured to say, seeing that it was in French.

“That is a pretty compliment but a bad translation,” said the young marquise.  And then, looking at him a moment, “Do you dance?”

“Not a step.”

“You are very wrong,” she said, simply.  And with another look at her back in the mirror she turned away.

“Do you like Paris?” asked the old lady, who was apparently wondering what was the proper way to talk to an American.

“Yes, rather,” said Newman.  And then he added with a friendly intonation, “Don’t you?”

“I can’t say I know it.  I know my house—­I know my friends—­I don’t know Paris.”

“Oh, you lose a great deal,” said Newman, sympathetically.

Madame de Bellegarde stared; it was presumably the first time she had been condoled with on her losses.

“I am content with what I have,” she said with dignity.

Newman’s eyes, at this moment, were wandering round the room, which struck him as rather sad and shabby; passing from the high casements, with their small, thickly-framed panes, to the sallow tints of two or three portraits in pastel, of the last century, which hung between them.  He ought, obviously, to have answered that the contentment of his hostess was quite natural—­she had a great deal; but the idea did not occur to him during the pause of some moments which followed.

“Well, my dear mother,” said Valentin, coming and leaning against the chimney-piece, “what do you think of my dear friend Newman?  Is he not the excellent fellow I told you?”

“My acquaintance with Mr. Newman has not gone very far,” said Madame de Bellegarde.  “I can as yet only appreciate his great politeness.”

“My mother is a great judge of these matters,” said Valentin to Newman.  “If you have satisfied her, it is a triumph.”

“I hope I shall satisfy you, some day,” said Newman, looking at the old lady.  “I have done nothing yet.”

“You must not listen to my son; he will bring you into trouble.  He is a sad scatterbrain.”