e was a stone," cried
Newman.

"Well," Valentin rejoined, "there is no disputing about tastes. It's a
matter of feeling; it's measured by one's sense of honor."

"Oh, confound your sense of honor!" cried Newman.

"It is vain talking," said Valentin; "words have passed, and the thing
is settled."

Newman turned away, taking his hat. Then pausing with his hand on the
door, "What are you going to use?" he asked.

"That is for M. Stanislas Kapp, as the challenged party, to decide.
My own choice would be a short, light sword. I handle it well. I'm an
indifferent shot."

Newman had put on his hat; he pushed it back, gently scratching his
forehead, high up. "I wish it were pistols," he said. "I could show you
how to lodge a bullet!"

Valentin broke into a laugh. "What is it some English poet says about
consistency? It's a flower or a star, or a jewel. Yours has the beauty
of all three!" But he agreed to see Newman again on the morrow, after
the details of his meeting with M. Stanislas Kapp should have been
arranged.

In the course of the day Newman received three lines from him, saying
that it had been decided that he should cross the frontier, with his
adversary, and that he was to take the night express to Geneva. He
should have time, however, to dine with Newman. In the afternoon Newman
called upon Madame de Cintre, but his visit was brief. She was as
gracious and sympathetic as he had ever found her, but she was sad, and
she confessed, on Newman's charging her with her red eyes, that she had
been crying. Valentin had been with her a couple of hours before, and
his visit had left her with a painful impression. He had laughed and
gossiped, he had brought her no bad news, he had only been, in his
manner, rather more affectionate than usual. His fraternal tenderness
had touched her, and on his departure she had burst into tears. She had
felt as if something strange and sad were going to happen; she had tried
to reason away the fancy, and the effort had only given her a headache.
Newman, of course, was perforce tongue-tied about Valentin's projected
duel, and his dramatic talent was not equal to satirizing Madame de
Cintre's presentiment as pointedly as perfect security demanded. Before
he went away he asked Madame de Cintre whether Valentin had seen his
mother.

"Yes," she said, "but he didn't make her cry."

It was in Newman's own apartment that Valentin dined, having brought
his portmanteau, so that he might ad