THE AMERICAN
which—even in the case of a small time-shrunken old lady—may reside in the habit of unquestioned authority and the absoluteness of a social theory favourable to the person holding it. "My son has spoken to you as I desired, and you'll understand that you've nothing to fear from our opposition. The rest will lie with yourself."
"M. de Bellegarde told me several things I did n't understand," said Newman, "but I made out that. You 'll let me stand on my merits. I'm much obliged."
"I wish nevertheless to add a word that my son probably did n't feel at liberty to say," the Marquise pursued. "I must say it for my own peace of mind. We 've stretched a point; we 've gone very far to meet you."
"Oh, your son said it very well; didn't you, Marquis?" Newman asked.
"Not so well as my mother," the Marquis declared.
"Well," Newman returned, "I don't know what I can do but make a note of it and try to profit by it."
"It's proper I should tell you," Madame de Bellegarde went on as if to relieve an insistent inward need, "that I'm a very stiff old person and that I don't pretend not to be. I may be wrong to feel certain things as I do, but it's too late for me to change. At least I know it—as I know also why. Don't flatter yourself that my daughter also isn't proud. She's proud in her own way—a somewhat different way from mine. You'll have to make your terms with that. Even Valentin's proud, if you touch the right spot—or the wrong one. Urbain's proud—that you see for yourself. Sometimes I think he's a little
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