THE AMERICAN
The old Marquise stood up to give Newman her greeting, and there was that in the way she did so which seemed to measure narrowly the quantity of importance such a demonstration might appear to attach to him. "We're all alone, you see; we've asked no one else," she said austerely.
"I'm very glad you didn't; this is much more sociable. I wish you good-evening, sir—and Newman offered his hand to the Marquis.
M. de Bellegarde was affable, yet in spite of his dignity was restless. He changed his place, fidgeted about, looked out of the long windows, took up books and laid them down again. Young Madame de Bellegarde gave their guest her hand without moving and without looking at him.
"You may think that's coldness," Valentin freely explained; "but it's not, it's the last confidence, and you 'll grow up to it. It shows she's treating you as an intimate. Now she detests me, and yet she's always looking at me."
"No wonder I detest you if I'm always looking at you!" cried the lady. "If Mr. Newman doesn't like my way of shaking hands I 'll do it for him again."
But this charming privilege was lost on our hero who was already making his way over to Madame de Cintré. She raised her eyes to him as she accepted from him the customary form, but she went on with the story she was telling her little niece. She had only two or three phrases to add, but they were apparently of great moment. She deepened her voice, smiling as she did so, and the little girl immensely gazed at
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