as made
me feel, in promising to do what he can to help me, that I can depend
upon him."

"Don't make too much of that," said Madame de Cintre. "He can help you
very little."

"Of course I must work my way myself. I know that very well; I only want
a chance to. In consenting to see me, after what he told you, you almost
seem to be giving me a chance."

"I am seeing you," said Madame de Cintre, slowly and gravely, "because I
promised my brother I would."

"Blessings on your brother's head!" cried Newman. "What I told him last
evening was this: that I admired you more than any woman I had ever
seen, and that I should like immensely to make you my wife." He uttered
these words with great directness and firmness, and without any sense of
confusion. He was full of his idea, he had completely mastered it,
and he seemed to look down on Madame de Cintre, with all her gathered
elegance, from the height of his bracing good conscience. It is probable
that this particular tone and manner were the very best he could have
hit upon. Yet the light, just visibly forced smile with which his
companion had listened to him died away, and she sat looking at him
with her lips parted and her face as solemn as a tragic mask. There was
evidently something very painful to her in the scene to which he was
subjecting her, and yet her impatience of it found no angry voice.
Newman wondered whether he was hurting her; he could not imagine why the
liberal devotion he meant to express should be disagreeable. He got up
and stood before her, leaning one hand on the chimney-piece. "I know I
have seen you very little to say this," he said, "so little that it may
make what I say seem disrespectful. That is my misfortune! I could have
said it the first time I saw you. Really, I had seen you before; I had
seen you in imagination; you seemed almost an old friend. So what I say
is not mere gallantry and compliments and nonsense--I can't talk that
way, I don't know how, and I wouldn't, to you, if I could. It's as
serious as such words can be. I feel as if I knew you and knew what a
beautiful, admirable woman you are. I shall know better, perhaps, some
day, but I have a general notion now. You are just the woman I have
been looking for, except that you are far more perfect. I won't make any
protestations and vows, but you can trust me. It is very soon, I know,
to say all this; it is almost offensive. But why not gain time if one
can? And if you want time to r