suasive accent than the
latter had ever heard him use, "You may count upon me." Then his wife
led him away.

Valentin stood looking from his sister to our hero. "I hope you both
reflected seriously," he said.

Madame de Cintre smiled. "We have neither your powers of reflection nor
your depth of seriousness; but we have done our best."

"Well, I have a great regard for each of you," Valentin continued. "You
are charming young people. But I am not satisfied, on the whole, that
you belong to that small and superior class--that exquisite group
composed of persons who are worthy to remain unmarried. These are rare
souls; they are the salt of the earth. But I don't mean to be invidious;
the marrying people are often very nice."

"Valentin holds that women should marry, and that men should not," said
Madame de Cintre. "I don't know how he arranges it."

"I arrange it by adoring you, my sister," said Valentin ardently.
"Good-by."

"Adore some one whom you can marry," said Newman. "I will arrange that
for you some day. I foresee that I am going to turn apostle."

Valentin was on the threshold; he looked back a moment with a face that
had turned grave. "I adore some one I can't marry!" he said. And he
dropped the portiere and departed.

"They don't like it," said Newman, standing alone before Madame de
Cintre.

"No," she said, after a moment; "they don't like it."

"Well, now, do you mind that?" asked Newman.

"Yes!" she said, after another interval.

"That's a mistake."

"I can't help it. I should prefer that my mother were pleased."

"Why the deuce," demanded Newman, "is she not pleased? She gave you
leave to marry me."

"Very true; I don't understand it. And yet I do 'mind it,' as you say.
You will call it superstitious."

"That will depend upon how much you let it bother you. Then I shall call
it an awful bore."

"I will keep it to myself," said Madame de Cintre, "It shall not bother
you." And then they talked of their marriage-day, and Madame de Cintre
assented unreservedly to Newman's desire to have it fixed for an early
date.

Newman's telegrams were answered with interest. Having dispatched but
three electric missives, he received no less than eight gratulatory
bulletins in return. He put them into his pocket-book, and the next time
he encountered old Madame de Bellegarde drew them forth and displayed
them to her. This, it must be confessed, was a slightly malicious
stroke; the reader must judge i