the principal drawing-room of the chateau. Newman crossed the
threshold of a room of superb proportions, which made him feel at first
like a tourist with a guide-book and a cicerone awaiting a fee. But when
his guide had left him alone, with the observation that he would call
Madame la Comtesse, Newman perceived that the salon contained little
that was remarkable save a dark ceiling with curiously carved rafters,
some curtains of elaborate, antiquated tapestry, and a dark oaken floor,
polished like a mirror. He waited some minutes, walking up and down; but
at length, as he turned at the end of the room, he saw that Madame de
Cintre had come in by a distant door. She wore a black dress, and she
stood looking at him. As the length of the immense room lay between them
he had time to look at her before they met in the middle of it.

He was dismayed at the change in her appearance. Pale, heavy-browed,
almost haggard with a sort of monastic rigidity in her dress, she had
little but her pure features in common with the woman whose radiant good
grace he had hitherto admired. She let her eyes rest on his own, and she
let him take her hand; but her eyes looked like two rainy autumn moons,
and her touch was portentously lifeless.

"I was at your brother's funeral," Newman said. "Then I waited three
days. But I could wait no longer."

"Nothing can be lost or gained by waiting," said Madame de Cintre. "But
it was very considerate of you to wait, wronged as you have been."

"I'm glad you think I have been wronged," said Newman, with that
oddly humorous accent with which he often uttered words of the gravest
meaning.

"Do I need to say so?" she asked. "I don't think I have wronged,
seriously, many persons; certainly not consciously. To you, to whom I
have done this hard and cruel thing, the only reparation I can make is
to say, 'I know it, I feel it!' The reparation is pitifully small!"

"Oh, it's a great step forward!" said Newman, with a gracious smile of
encouragement. He pushed a chair towards her and held it, looking at her
urgently. She sat down, mechanically, and he seated himself near
her; but in a moment he got up, restlessly, and stood before her. She
remained seated, like a troubled creature who had passed through the
stage of restlessness.

"I say nothing is to be gained by my seeing you," she went on, "and yet
I am very glad you came. Now I can tell you what I feel. It is a selfish
pleasure, but it is one of the l