“It’s to Lord Deepmere’s credit, but it is not to everyone’s,” said Madam de Cintré. “So I shall say nothing about it. You may be sure,” she added; and she put out her hand to the Englishman, who took it half shyly, half impetuously. “And now go and dance!” she said.
“Oh yes, I feel awfully like dancing!” he answered. “I shall go and get tipsy.” And he walked away with a gloomy guffaw.
“What has happened between you?” Newman asked.
“I can’t tell you—now,” said Madame de Cintré. “Nothing that need make you unhappy.”
“Has the little Englishman been trying to make love to you?”
She hesitated, and then she uttered a grave “No! he’s a very honest little fellow.”
“But you are agitated. Something is the matter.”
“Nothing, I repeat, that need make you unhappy. My agitation is over. Some day I will tell you what it was; not now. I can’t now!”
“Well, I confess,” remarked Newman, “I don’t want to hear anything unpleasant. I am satisfied with everything—most of all with you. I have seen all the ladies and talked with a great many of them; but I am satisfied with you.” Madame de Cintré covered him for a moment with her large, soft glance, and then turned her eyes away into the starry night. So they stood silent a moment, side by side. “Say you are satisfied with me,” said Newman.
He had to wait a moment for the answer; but it came at last, low yet distinct: “I am very happy.”