THE AMERICAN
"Your house is tremendously old then?" Newman pursued.
"How old is it, brother?" asked Madame de Cintré.
The young man took the two candles from the mantel, lifted one high in each hand and looked up, above the objects on the shelf, toward the cornice of the room. The chimney-piece was in white marble of the Louis-Quinze period, but much aloft was a panelling of an earlier date, quaintly carved, painted white and here and there gilded. The white had turned to yellow and the gilding was tarnished. On the top the figures ranged themselves into a shield, on which an armorial device was cut. Above it, in relief, was a number—1627. "There you have a year," said the young man. "That's old or new, according to your point of view."
"Well, over here," Newman replied, "one's point of view gets shifted round considerably." And he threw back his head and looked about. "Your house is of a very fine style of architecture."
"Are you interested in questions of architecture?" asked the gentleman at the chimney-piece.
"Well, I took the trouble this summer to examine—as well as I can calculate—some four hundred and seventy churches. Do you call that interested?"
"Perhaps you're interested in religion," said his amiable host.
Newman thought. "Not actively." He found himself speaking as if it were a railroad or a mine; so that the next moment, to correct this, "Are you a
117
