 end, and that he wanted you to know it; but he didn't like being
mixed up with that sort of underhand work, and he came to you and told tales.
That was about the amount of it, wasn't it? And then you said you were perfectly
happy.«
    »I don't see why we should talk of Lord Deepmere,« said Madame de Cintré.
»It was not for that you came here; and about my mother, it doesn't matter what
you suspect and what you know. When once my mind has been made up, as it is now,
I should not discuss these things. Discussing anything, now, is very idle. We
must try and live each as we can. I believe you will be happy again; even,
sometimes, when you think of me. When you do so, think this - that it was not
easy, and that I did the best I could. I have things to reckon with that you
don't know. I mean I have feelings. I must do as they force me - I must, I must.
They would haunt me otherwise,« she cried, with vehemence; »they would kill me!«
    »I know what your feelings are: they are superstitions! They are the feeling
that, after all, though I am a good fellow, I have been in business; the feeling
that your mother's looks are law and your brother's words are gospel; that you
all hang together, and that it's a part of the everlasting proprieties that they
should have a hand in everything you do. It makes my blood boil. That is cold;
you are right. And what I feel here,« and Newman struck his heart and became
more poetical than he knew, »is a glowing fire!«
    A spectator less preoccupied than Madame de Cintré's distracted wooer would
have felt sure from the first that her appealing calm of manner was the result
of violent effort, in spite of which the tide of agitation was rapidly rising.
On these last words of Newman's it overflowed, though at first she spoke low,
for fear of her voice betraying her. »No, I was not right - I am not cold! I
believe that if I am doing what seems so bad, it is not mere weakness and
falseness. Mr. Newman, it's like a religion. I can't tell you - I can't! It's
cruel of you to insist. I don
