THE AMERICAN
of a convent. The portress couldn't say if Madame de Cintré were visible; he would please to apply at the further door. He crossed the court; a gentleman was sitting, bareheaded, on the steps of the portico, in play with a beautiful pointer. He rose as Newman approached, and, as he laid his hand on the bell, said, almost sociably, in English, that he was ashamed a visitor should be kept waiting: the servants were scattered; he himself had been ringing; he did n't know what the deuce was in them. This gentleman was young; his English was excellent, his expression easy. Newman pronounced the name of Madame de Cintré.
"I dare say," said the young man, "that my sister will be visible. Come in, and if you 'll give me your card I'll carry it to her myself."
Newman had been accompanied on his present errand by a sentiment I will not say of defiance—a readiness for aggression or for defence, as either might prove needful—but rather of meditative, though quite undaunted and good-humoured suspicion. He took from his pocket, while he stood on the portico, a card upon which, under his name, he had written the words "San Francisco," and while he presented it he looked warily at his interlocutor. His glance found quick reassurance; he liked the young man's face; it strongly resembled that of Madame de Cintré, whose brother he would clearly be. The young man, on his side, had made a rapid inspection of Newman's person. He had taken the card and was about to enter the house with it when another figure appeared on the threshold—an older
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