was again
in Paris and was faithful in his desire to make Madame de Cintre's
acquaintance, this lovely woman had found a smile in her despair, and
declared that she was sorry to have missed his visit in the spring and
that she hoped he had not lost courage. "I told her something about
you," said Mrs. Tristram.

"That's a comfort," said Newman, placidly. "I like people to know about
me."

A few days after this, one dusky autumn afternoon, he went again to the
Rue de l'Universite. The early evening had closed in as he applied for
admittance at the stoutly guarded Hotel de Bellegarde. He was told that
Madame de Cintre was at home; he crossed the court, entered the farther
door, and was conducted through a vestibule, vast, dim, and cold, up a
broad stone staircase with an ancient iron balustrade, to an apartment
on the second floor. Announced and ushered in, he found himself in a
sort of paneled boudoir, at one end of which a lady and gentleman were
seated before the fire. The gentleman was smoking a cigarette; there was
no light in the room save that of a couple of candles and the glow from
the hearth. Both persons rose to welcome Newman, who, in the firelight,
recognized Madame de Cintre. She gave him her hand with a smile which
seemed in itself an illumination, and, pointing to her companion, said
softly, "My brother." The gentleman offered Newman a frank, friendly
greeting, and our hero then perceived him to be the young man who had
spoken to him in the court of the hotel on his former visit and who had
struck him as a good fellow.

"Mrs. Tristram has spoken to me a great deal of you," said Madame de
Cintre gently, as she resumed her former place.

Newman, after he had seated himself, began to consider what, in truth,
was his errand. He had an unusual, unexpected sense of having wandered
into a strange corner of the world. He was not given, as a general
thing, to anticipating danger, or forecasting disaster, and he had had
no social tremors on this particular occasion. He was not timid and he
was not impudent. He felt too kindly toward himself to be the one, and
too good-naturedly toward the rest of the world to be the other. But his
native shrewdness sometimes placed his ease of temper at its mercy; with
every disposition to take things simply, it was obliged to perceive that
some things were not so simple as others. He felt as one does in missing
a step, in an ascent, where one expected to find it. This strange,