 to the best. And for life - that's the
blessing of it! They can't begin again.«
    Newman dropped into a chair and sat looking at her with a long inarticulate
murmur. That this superb woman, in whom he had seen all human grace and
household force, should turn from him and all the brightness that he offered her
- him and his future and his fortune and his fidelity - to muffle herself in
ascetic rags and entomb herself in a cell, was a confounding combination of the
inexorable and the grotesque. As the image deepened before him the grotesque
seemed to expand and overspread it; it was a reduction to the absurd of the
trial to which he was subjected. »You - you a nun!« he exclaimed; »you with your
beauty defaced - you behind locks and bars! Never, never, if I can prevent it!«
And he sprang to his feet with a violent laugh.
    »You can't prevent it,« said Madame de Cintré, »and it ought - a little - to
satisfy you. Do you suppose I will go on living in the world, still beside you,
and yet not with you? It is all arranged. Good-bye, good-bye.«
    This time he took her hand, took it in both his own. »Forever?« he said. Her
lips made an inaudible movement and his own uttered a deep imprecation. She
closed her eyes, as if with the pain of hearing it; then he drew her towards him
and clasped her to his breast. He kissed her white face; for an instant she
resisted and for a moment she submitted; then, with force, she disengaged
herself and hurried away over the long shining floor. The next moment the door
closed behind her.
    Newman made his way out as he could.
 

                                  Chapter XXI

There is a pretty public walk at Poitiers, laid out upon the crest of the high
hill around which the little city clusters, planted with thick trees, and
looking down upon the fertile fields in which the old English princes fought for
their right and held it. Newman paced up and down this quiet promenade for the
greater part of the next day, and let his eyes wander over the historic
prospect; but he would have been sadly at a loss to tell you afterwards whether
the latter was made up of coal-fields or of vineyards. He was wholly given up to
his grievance, of which reflection by no means diminished the weight. He feared
that Madame de Cintré was irretrievably lost; and yet, as he
