THE AMERICAN
mild eyes were clear and still. "She's cold, calm and hopeless," Mrs. Tristram declared, and she added that on her mentioning that her friend Mr. Newman was again in Paris and was faithful in his desire to make Madame de Cintré's acquaintance, this lovely woman had found a smile in her despair and expressed her regret at having missed his visit in the spring and her hope that he had not lost courage. "I told her something about you," Newman's hostess wound up.
"That's a comfort," he patiently answered. "I seem to want people to know about me."
A few days after this, one dusky autumn afternoon, he went again to the Rue de l'Université. The early evening had closed in as he applied for admittance at the stoutly-guarded Hôtel de Bellegarde. He was told that Madame la Comtesse was at home, on which he crossed the court, entered the further 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 first floor. Announced and ushered in, he found himself in a large panelled boudoir, at one end of which a lady and a gentleman were seated by 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 recognised Madame la Comtesse. She gave him her hand with a smile which seemed in itself an illumination, and, pointing to her companion, murmured an allusion, "One of my bro-
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