nted for the
absence of even the most devoted habitues. In the long silences the
howling of the wind and the beating of the rain were distinctly audible.
Newman sat perfectly still, watching the clock, determined to stay till
the stroke of eleven, but not a moment longer. Madame de Cintre had
turned her back to the circle, and had been standing for some time
within the uplifted curtain of a window, with her forehead against the
pane, gazing out into the deluged darkness. Suddenly she turned round
toward her sister-in-law.

"For Heaven's sake," she said, with peculiar eagerness, "go to the piano
and play something."

Madame de Bellegarde held up her tapestry and pointed to a little white
flower. "Don't ask me to leave this. I am in the midst of a masterpiece.
My flower is going to smell very sweet; I am putting in the smell with
this gold-colored silk. I am holding my breath; I can't leave off. Play
something yourself."

"It is absurd for me to play when you are present," said Madame de
Cintre. But the next moment she went to the piano and began to
strike the keys with vehemence. She played for some time, rapidly and
brilliantly; when she stopped, Newman went to the piano and asked her
to begin again. She shook her head, and, on his insisting, she said, "I
have not been playing for you; I have been playing for myself." She went
back to the window again and looked out, and shortly afterwards left the
room. When Newman took leave, Urbain de Bellegarde accompanied him, as
he always did, just three steps down the staircase. At the bottom stood
a servant with his overcoat. He had just put it on when he saw Madame de
Cintre coming towards him across the vestibule.

"Shall you be at home on Friday?" Newman asked.

She looked at him a moment before answering his question. "You don't
like my mother and my brother," she said.

He hesitated a moment, and then he said softly, "No."

She laid her hand on the balustrade and prepared to ascend the stairs,
fixing her eyes on the first step.

"Yes, I shall be at home on Friday," and she passed up the wide dusky
staircase.

On the Friday, as soon as he came in, she asked him to please to tell
her why he disliked her family.

"Dislike your family?" he exclaimed. "That has a horrid sound. I didn't
say so, did I? I didn't mean it, if I did."

"I wish you would tell me what you think of them," said Madame de
Cintre.

"I don't think of any of them but you."

"That is because