“Oh, I like him—­I like him,” said Newman, genially.

“He amuses you, eh?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“Do you hear that, Valentin?” said Madame de Bellegarde.  “You amuse Mr. Newman.”

“Perhaps we shall all come to that!” Valentin exclaimed.

“You must see my other son,” said Madame de Bellegarde.  “He is much better than this one.  But he will not amuse you.”

“I don’t know—­I don’t know!” murmured Valentin, reflectively.  “But we shall very soon see.  Here comes Monsieur mon frere.”

The door had just opened to give ingress to a gentleman who stepped forward and whose face Newman remembered.  He had been the author of our hero’s discomfiture the first time he tried to present himself to Madame de Cintre.  Valentin de Bellegarde went to meet his brother, looked at him a moment, and then, taking him by the arm, led him up to Newman.

“This is my excellent friend Mr. Newman,” he said very blandly.  “You must know him.”

“I am delighted to know Mr. Newman,” said the marquis with a low bow, but without offering his hand.

“He is the old woman at second-hand,” Newman said to himself, as he returned M. de Bellegarde’s greeting.  And this was the starting-point of a speculative theory, in his mind, that the late marquis had been a very amiable foreigner, with an inclination to take life easily and a sense that it was difficult for the husband of the stilted little lady by the fire to do so.  But if he had taken little comfort in his wife he had taken much in his two younger children, who were after his own heart, while Madame de Bellegarde had paired with her eldest-born.

“My brother has spoken to me of you,” said M. de Bellegarde; “and as you are also acquainted with my sister, it was time we should meet.”  He turned to his mother and gallantly bent over her hand, touching it with his lips, and then he assumed an attitude before the chimney-piece.  With his long, lean face, his high-bridged nose and his small, opaque eye he looked much like an Englishman.  His whiskers were fair and glossy, and he had a large dimple, of unmistakably British origin, in the middle of his handsome chin.  He was “distinguished” to the tips of his polished nails, and there was not a movement of his fine, perpendicular person that was not noble and majestic.  Newman had never yet been confronted with such an incarnation of the art of taking one’s self seriously; he felt a sort of impulse to step backward, as you do to get a view of a great facade.

“Urbain,” said young Madame de Bellegarde, who had apparently been waiting for her husband to take her to her ball, “I call your attention to the fact that I am dressed.”

“That is a good idea,” murmured Valentin.

“I am at your orders, my dear friend,” said M. de Bellegarde.  “Only, you must allow me first the pleasure of a little conversation with Mr. Newman.”

“Oh, if you are going to a party, don’t let me keep you,” objected Newman.  “I am very sure we shall meet again.  Indeed, if you would like to converse with me I will gladly name an hour.”  He was eager to make it known that he would readily answer all questions and satisfy all exactions.