thought very much to his honor. It was a
service he had rendered to an old friend of the family; something more
"serious" than Valentin was usually supposed capable of being. Newman
said he was glad to hear of it, and then began to talk about something
which lay upon his own heart. Madame de Cintre listened, but after a
while she said, "I don't like the way you speak of my brother Valentin."
Hereupon Newman, surprised, said that he had never spoken of him but
kindly.

"It is too kindly," said Madame de Cintre. "It is a kindness that costs
nothing; it is the kindness you show to a child. It is as if you didn't
respect him."

"Respect him? Why I think I do."

"You think? If you are not sure, it is no respect."

"Do you respect him?" said Newman. "If you do, I do."

"If one loves a person, that is a question one is not bound to answer,"
said Madame de Cintre.

"You should not have asked it of me, then. I am very fond of your
brother."

"He amuses you. But you would not like to resemble him."

"I shouldn't like to resemble any one. It is hard enough work resembling
one's self."

"What do you mean," asked Madame de Cintre, "by resembling one's self?"

"Why, doing what is expected of one. Doing one's duty."

"But that is only when one is very good."

"Well, a great many people are good," said Newman. "Valentin is quite
good enough for me."

Madame de Cintre was silent for a short time. "He is not good enough for
me," she said at last. "I wish he would do something."

"What can he do?" asked Newman.

"Nothing. Yet he is very clever."

"It is a proof of cleverness," said Newman, "to be happy without doing
anything."

"I don't think Valentin is happy, in reality. He is clever, generous,
brave; but what is there to show for it? To me there is something sad in
his life, and sometimes I have a sort of foreboding about him. I don't
know why, but I fancy he will have some great trouble--perhaps an
unhappy end."

"Oh, leave him to me," said Newman, jovially. "I will watch over him and
keep harm away."

One evening, in Madame de Bellegarde's salon, the conversation had
flagged most sensibly. The marquis walked up and down in silence, like a
sentinel at the door of some smooth-fronted citadel of the proprieties;
his mother sat staring at the fire; young Madame de Bellegarde worked at
an enormous band of tapestry. Usually there were three or four visitors,
but on this occasion a violent storm sufficiently accou