“A deep interest, sir. Especially in the countess.”
“I am glad of that,” said Newman. And in a moment he added, smiling, “So do I!”
“So I suppose, sir. We can’t help noticing these things and having our ideas; can we, sir?”
“You mean as a servant?” said Newman.
“Ah, there it is, sir. I am afraid that when I let my thoughts meddle with such matters I am no longer a servant. But I am so devoted to the countess; if she were my own child I couldn’t love her more. That is how I come to be so bold, sir. They say you want to marry her.”
Newman eyed his interlocutress and satisfied himself that she was not a gossip, but a zealot; she looked anxious, appealing, discreet. “It is quite true,” he said. “I want to marry Madame de Cintré.”
“And to take her away to America?”
“I will take her wherever she wants to go.”
“The farther away the better, sir!” exclaimed the old woman, with sudden intensity. But she checked herself, and, taking up a paper-weight in mosaic, began to polish it with her black apron. “I don’t mean anything against the house or the family, sir. But I think a great change would do the poor countess good. It is very sad here.”
“Yes, it’s not very lively,” said Newman. “But Madame de Cintré is gay herself.”