THE AMERICAN
her. If I did it would come dreadfully back to me. I can't change!"
"No," said Newman bitterly; "I must change—if I break in two in the effort!"
"You 're different. You 're a man; you 'll get over it. You 'll live, you 'll do things, you can't not do good, therefore you can't not be happy: you 'll find all kinds of consolation. You were born—you were trained—to changes. Besides, besides, I shall always think of you."
"I don't care for that!" he almost shouted. "You're cruel—you're terribly cruel, God forgive you! You may have the best reasons and the finest feelings in the world; that makes no difference. You're a mystery to me; I don't see how such hardness can go with anything so divine!"
Madame de Cintré fixed him a moment with her swimming eyes. "You believe I'm hard then?"
He glared as if at her drowning beyond help; then he broke out: "You're a perfect, faultless, priceless creature! For God's sake, stay by me!"
"Of course I'm hard in effect," she pitifully reasoned; "though if ever a creature was innocent, in intention—! Whenever we give pain we're hard. And we must give pain; that's the world—the hateful miserable world! Ah!" and she gave a sigh as sharp as the shudder of an ague, "I can't even say I'm glad to have known you—though I am. That too is to wrong you. I can say nothing that's not cruel. Therefore let us part without more of this. Good-bye!" And she put out her hand.
Newman stood and looked at it without taking it,
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