“Yes, it’s a family habit to be born here!” the young man said with a laugh, and rose and threw the remnant of his cigarette into the fire, and then remained leaning against the chimney-piece. An observer would have perceived that he wished to take a better look at Newman, whom he covertly examined, while he stood stroking his moustache.
“Your house is tremendously old, then,” said Newman.
“How old is it, brother?” asked Madame de Cintré.
The young man took the two candles from the mantel-shelf, lifted one high in each hand, and looked up toward the cornice of the room, above the chimney-piece. This latter feature of the apartment was of white marble, and in the familiar rococo style of the last century; but above it was a paneling of an earlier date, quaintly carved, painted white, and gilded here and there. The white had turned to yellow, and the gilding was tarnished. On the top, the figures ranged themselves into a sort of shield, on which an armorial device was cut. Above it, in relief, was a date—1627. “There you have it,” said the young man. “That is old or new, according to your point of view.”
“Well, over here,” said Newman, “one’s point of view gets shifted round considerably.” And he threw back his head and looked about the room. “Your house is of a very curious style of architecture,” he said.
“Are you interested in architecture?” asked the young man at the chimney-piece.
“Well, I took the trouble, this summer,” said Newman, “to examine—as well as I can calculate—some four hundred and seventy churches. Do you call that interested?”
“Perhaps you are interested in theology,” said the young man.
“Not particularly. Are you a Roman Catholic, madam?” And he turned to Madame de Cintré.
“Yes, sir,” she answered, gravely.