THE AMERICAN
"I shall be at home on Friday," she brought out; and she passed up while he watched her. But on the Friday, as soon as he came in, she asked him to be so good as to tell her why he had such an aversion to her family.
"Such an aversion? Did I call it that? Don't think I make too much of it. See how easily I work it."
"I wish you would tell me what you think of them," she simply said.
"I don't think of any of them but you."
"That's because you dislike them too much. Speak the truth; you can't offend me."
"Well, I could live at a pinch without the Marquis," Newman confessed. "It comes to me now, if you mention it. But what's the use of our bringing it up? I don't think of him."
"You're too good-natured," Madame de Cintré gravely said. Then, as if to avoid the appearance of inviting him to speak ill of her brother, she turned away, motioning him to sit down.
But he remained there before her. "What's of much more importance is that they can scarcely stand me."
"Scarcely," she said with the gentlest, oddest distinctness.
"And don't you think they're wrong? I don't strike myself as a man to hate."
"I suppose a man who may inspire strong feelings," she thoughtfully opined, "must take his chance of what they are. But have my brother and my mother made you hate them?"
"Oh, I don't sling my passions about—I've put
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