THE AMERICAN
tion, they could n't project themselves into the future, and now they'll have to begin again. But they are people of honour and they'll do whatever's necessary."
Newman spent a few moments in narrow-eyed meditation. I'm not hard on them," he presently said, "and to prove it I 'll invite them all to a festival."
"A festival—?"
"You've been laughing at my great gilded rooms all winter; I 'll show you they're good for something. I 'll give a party. What's the grandest thing one can do here? I 'll hire all the great singers from the opera and all the first people from the Theatre Francais, and I 'll hold an entertainment—the biggest kind of show."
"And who will you invite?"
"You two, first of all. And the old woman, damn her, and her son and her son's wife. And Valentin of course—for the fun of him. And then every one of their friends whom I have met at their house or elsewhere, every one who has shown me the minimum of politeness, every duke of them, such as they are, every doddering old duchess, every great name in the place. And then all my friends, without exception—Miss Kitty Upjohn, Miss Dora Finch, General Packard, C. P. Hatch, every pet horror even of yours. And every one shall know what it's about—to celebrate my engagement to the Countess de Cintré, who shall sit, through it all, on a golden chair above their heads and look as beautiful—and perhaps, poor dear, as bored—as a saint in paradise. What do you think of the idea?"
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