kened no mental reservation; or that, at least, almost betokened
none.

Newman perhaps discovered there what little there was, for he presently
said, "You don't love your brother."

"I beg your pardon," said Bellegarde, ceremoniously; "well-bred people
always love their brothers."

"Well, I don't love him, then!" Newman answered.

"Wait till you know him!" rejoined Bellegarde, and this time he smiled.

"Is your mother also very remarkable?" Newman asked, after a pause.

"For my mother," said Bellegarde, now with intense gravity, "I have
the highest admiration. She is a very extraordinary woman. You cannot
approach her without perceiving it."

"She is the daughter, I believe, of an English nobleman."

"Of the Earl of St. Dunstan's."

"Is the Earl of St. Dunstan's a very old family?"

"So-so; the sixteenth century. It is on my father's side that we go
back--back, back, back. The family antiquaries themselves lose breath.
At last they stop, panting and fanning themselves, somewhere in the
ninth century, under Charlemagne. That is where we begin."

"There is no mistake about it?" said Newman.

"I'm sure I hope not. We have been mistaken at least for several
centuries."

"And you have always married into old families?"

"As a rule; though in so long a stretch of time there have been some
exceptions. Three or four Bellegardes, in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries, took wives out of the bourgoisie--married lawyers'
daughters."

"A lawyer's daughter; that's very bad, is it?" asked Newman.

"Horrible! one of us, in the middle ages, did better: he married a
beggar-maid, like King Cophetua. That was really better; it was like
marrying a bird or a monkey; one didn't have to think about her family
at all. Our women have always done well; they have never even gone into
the petite noblesse. There is, I believe, not a case on record of a
misalliance among the women."

Newman turned this over for a while, and, then at last he said, "You
offered, the first time you came to see me to render me any service you
could. I told you that some time I would mention something you might do.
Do you remember?"

"Remember? I have been counting the hours."

"Very well; here's your chance. Do what you can to make your sister
think well of me."

Bellegarde stared, with a smile. "Why, I'm sure she thinks as well of
you as possible, already."

"An opinion founded on seeing me three or four times? That is putting me
off wi