ard the young lady.

Newman turned away; he was having more of her than he relished. M.
Nioche had stepped aside on his daughter's approach, and he stood there,
within a very small compass, looking down hard at the ground. It had
never yet, as between him and Newman, been so apposite to place on
record the fact that he had not forgiven his daughter. As Newman was
moving away he looked up and drew near to him, and Newman, seeing the
old man had something particular to say, bent his head for an instant.

"You will see it some day in the papers,"' murmured M. Nioche.

Our hero departed to hide his smile, and to this day, though the
newspapers form his principal reading, his eyes have not been arrested
by any paragraph forming a sequel to this announcement.

CHAPTER XXVI

In that uninitiated observation of the great spectacle of English life
upon which I have touched, it might be supposed that Newman passed a
great many dull days. But the dullness of his days pleased him; his
melancholy, which was settling into a secondary stage, like a healing
wound, had in it a certain acrid, palatable sweetness. He had company in
his thoughts, and for the present he wanted no other. He had no desire
to make acquaintances, and he left untouched a couple of notes of
introduction which had been sent him by Tom Tristram. He thought a great
deal of Madame de Cintre--sometimes with a dogged tranquillity which
might have seemed, for a quarter of an hour at a time, a near neighbor
to forgetfulness. He lived over again the happiest hours he had
known--that silver chain of numbered days in which his afternoon visits,
tending sensibly to the ideal result, had subtilized his good humor to
a sort of spiritual intoxication. He came back to reality, after such
reveries, with a somewhat muffled shock; he had begun to feel the need
of accepting the unchangeable. At other times the reality became an
infamy again and the unchangeable an imposture, and he gave himself up
to his angry restlessness till he was weary. But on the whole he fell
into a rather reflective mood. Without in the least intending it or
knowing it, he attempted to read the moral of his strange misadventure.
He asked himself, in his quieter hours, whether perhaps, after all, he
WAS more commercial than was pleasant. We know that it was in obedience
to a strong reaction against questions exclusively commercial that
he had come out to pick up aesthetic entertainment in Europe; it