nt gaze there was a sort of
bottomless depth. She was in distress; it was the most touching thing he
had ever seen. His heart rose into his throat, and he was on the point
of turning to her companions, with an angry challenge; but she checked
him, pressing the hand that held her own.

"Something very grave has happened," she said. "I cannot marry you."

Newman dropped her hand and stood staring, first at her and then at the
others. "Why not?" he asked, as quietly as possible.

Madame de Cintre almost smiled, but the attempt was strange. "You must
ask my mother, you must ask my brother."

"Why can't she marry me?" said Newman, looking at them.

Madame de Bellegarde did not move in her place, but she was as pale as
her daughter. The marquis looked down at her. She said nothing for some
moments, but she kept her keen, clear eyes upon Newman, bravely. The
marquis drew himself up and looked at the ceiling. "It's impossible!" he
said softly.

"It's improper," said Madame de Bellegarde.

Newman began to laugh. "Oh, you are fooling!" he exclaimed.

"My sister, you have no time; you are losing your train," said the
marquis.

"Come, is he mad?" asked Newman.

"No; don't think that," said Madame de Cintre. "But I am going away."

"Where are you going?"

"To the country, to Fleurieres; to be alone."

"To leave me?" said Newman, slowly.

"I can't see you, now," said Madame de Cintre.

"NOW--why not?"

"I am ashamed," said Madame de Cintre, simply.

Newman turned toward the marquis. "What have you done to her--what does
it mean?" he asked with the same effort at calmness, the fruit of
his constant practice in taking things easily. He was excited, but
excitement with him was only an intenser deliberateness; it was the
swimmer stripped.

"It means that I have given you up," said Madame de Cintre. "It means
that."

Her face was too charged with tragic expression not fully to confirm her
words. Newman was profoundly shocked, but he felt as yet no resentment
against her. He was amazed, bewildered, and the presence of the old
marquise and her son seemed to smite his eyes like the glare of a
watchman's lantern. "Can't I see you alone?" he asked.

"It would be only more painful. I hoped I should not see you--I should
escape. I wrote to you. Good-by." And she put out her hand again.

Newman put both his own into his pockets. "I will go with you," he said.

She laid her two hands on his arm. "Will you grant me a las