THE AMERICAN
Newman laid his hand on his companion's arm and eyed him a moment through measuring lids. "Try it and see. I'm not sure you're not too bright to live; but why not find out how bright a man can afford to be?"
"Do you really think I can make some money? Once when I was a small boy I found a silver piece under a door-mat. I should like awfully to see how it feels to find a gold one."
"Well, do what I tell you and you shall find salvation," said Newman. "Think of it well." And he looked at his watch and prepared to resume his way to Madame de Bellegarde's box.
"Upon my honour I will think of it," Valentin returned. "I 'll go and listen to Mozart another half-hour—I can always think better to music—and profoundly meditate on it."
The Marquis was with his wife when Newman entered their box; he was as remotely bland as usual, but the great demonstration in which he had lately played his part appeared to have been a drawbridge lowered and lifted again. Newman was once more outside the castle and its master perched on the battlements. "What do you think of the opera?" our hero none the less artlessly demanded. "What do you think of the cool old Don?"
"He does n't remain so very cool," the Marquis amusedly replied. "But we all know what Mozart is; our impressions don't date from this evening. Mozart is youth, freshness, brilliancy, facility—facility perhaps a little too unbroken. But the execution is here and there deplorably rough."
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