THE AMERICAN
"If I'm alone it's because I've been deprived of your society," Valentin returned. "Besides, it's good manners for no man except Newman to look happy. This is all to his address. It's not for you and me to go before the curtain."
"You prophesied to me last spring," said Newman to Mrs. Tristram, "that six months from that time I should get into a tearing rage. It seems to me the time's up, and yet the nearest I can now come to doing anything rough is to offer you a café glacé."
I promised you we should do things grandly," Valentin observed. "I don't allude to the cafés glacés. But every one's here, and my sister told me just now that Urbain has been adorable."
He's a real nice man—all the way through. If I don't look out," Newman went on—"or if he does n't—I shall begin to love him as a brother. That reminds me that I ought to go and say some thing enthusiastic to your mother."
"Let it be something very enthusiastic indeed," said Valentin. "It may be the last time you 'll feel so much in the vein."
Newman walked away almost disposed to clasp Madame de Bellegarde round the waist. He passed through several rooms and at last found her in the first saloon, seated on a sofa with her young kinsman Lord Deepmere beside her. The young man unmistakeably felt the strain; his hands were thrust into his pockets and his eyes fixed on the toes of his shoes, his feet being thrust out in front of him. His hostess appeared to have been addressing him with some intensity and to be now waiting for an answer
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