THE AMERICAN
sidered the ceiling. "It's impossible!" he finely articulated.
"It's improper," said Madame de Bellegarde.
Newman began to laugh. "Oh, you're fooling!" he exclaimed.
"My sister, you've no time; you're losing your train," the Marquis went on.
"Come, is he mad?" Newman asked.
"No; don't think that," said Madame de Cintré. "But I'm going away."
"Where are you going?"
"To the country; to Fleurières; to be alone."
"To leave me alone?" Newman put it.
"I can't see you now," she simply answered.
"'Now'—why not?"
"I'm ashamed," she still more simply confessed.
Newman turned to the Marquis. "What have you done to her—what does it mean?" he asked with the same effort at calmness, the fruit of his constant practice in taking things easily. He was excited, but excitement with him was only an intenser deliberateness; it was the plunger stripped.
"It means that I've given you up," said Madame de Cintré. "It means that."
Her appearance was too charged with tragic expression not fully to confirm her words. Newman was profoundly shocked, but he felt as yet no resentment against her. He was amazed, bewildered, and the presence of the Marquise and her son seemed to smite his eyes like the glare of a watch man's lantern. "Can't I see you alone? he asked.
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