er the front
of her dress, which was apparently designed for a ball. She was, in a
singular way, at once ugly and pretty; she had protuberant eyes, and
lips strangely red. She reminded Newman of his friend, Mademoiselle
Nioche; this was what that much-obstructed young lady would have liked
to be. Valentin de Bellegarde walked behind her at a distance, hopping
about to keep off the far-spreading train of her dress.

"You ought to show more of your shoulders behind," he said very gravely.
"You might as well wear a standing ruff as such a dress as that."

The young woman turned her back to the mirror over the chimney-piece,
and glanced behind her, to verify Valentin's assertion. The mirror
descended low, and yet it reflected nothing but a large unclad flesh
surface. The young marquise put her hands behind her and gave a downward
pull to the waist of her dress. "Like that, you mean?" she asked.

"That is a little better," said Bellegarde in the same tone, "but it
leaves a good deal to be desired."

"Oh, I never go to extremes," said his sister-in-law. And then, turning
to Madame de Bellegarde, "What were you calling me just now, madame?"

"I called you a gad-about," said the old lady. "But I might call you
something else, too."

"A gad-about? What an ugly word! What does it mean?"

"A very beautiful person," Newman ventured to say, seeing that it was in
French.

"That is a pretty compliment but a bad translation," said the young
marquise. And then, looking at him a moment, "Do you dance?"

"Not a step."

"You are very wrong," she said, simply. And with another look at her
back in the mirror she turned away.

"Do you like Paris?" asked the old lady, who was apparently wondering
what was the proper way to talk to an American.

"Yes, rather," said Newman. And then he added with a friendly
intonation, "Don't you?"

"I can't say I know it. I know my house--I know my friends--I don't know
Paris."

"Oh, you lose a great deal," said Newman, sympathetically.

Madame de Bellegarde stared; it was presumably the first time she had
been condoled with on her losses.

"I am content with what I have," she said with dignity.

Newman's eyes, at this moment, were wandering round the room, which
struck him as rather sad and shabby; passing from the high casements,
with their small, thickly-framed panes, to the sallow tints of two or
three portraits in pastel, of the last century, which hung between
them. He ought, obvious