THE AMERICAN
She slowly got up. "That really is your 'great idea'?"
"Yes. Will you give it any countenance?"
Madame de Bellegarde looked at him hard and shook her head. Then her so peculiarly little mouth rounded itself to a "No!" which she seemed to blow at him as for a mortal chill.
"Will you then just let me alone with my chance?"
"You don't know what you ask. I'm a very proud and meddlesome old person."
"Well, I'm very rich," he returned with a world of desperate intention.
She fixed her eyes on the floor, and he thought it probable she was weighing the reasons in favour of resenting his so calculated directness. But at last looking up, "How rich?" she simply articulated.
He gave her, at this, the figure of his income—gave it in a round number which had the magnificent sound that large aggregations of dollars put on when translated into francs. He added to the enunciation of mere brute quantity certain financial particulars which completed a sufficiently striking presentment of his resources.
Madame de Bellegarde had let him enjoy her undisguised attention. "You're very frank," she finally said, "and I 'll be the same. I would rather, on the whole, get all the good of you there is—rather, I mean, than, as you call it, let you alone. I would rather," she coldly smiled, "take you in our way than in your way. I think it will be easier."
"I'm thankful for any terms," Newman quite radiantly answered. "It's enough for me to feel
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