THE AMERICAN
worse neither of you nor of herself. I imagine, though, she hopes the saints in heaven are, for I'm sure she's incapable of trying to please by any means of which they 'd disapprove."
"Is she happy then?" Newman presently pursued.
"Oh, oh, oh! That's much to ask."
"Do you mean for me—?"
"I mean for her. What should she be happy about?"
Newman wondered. "Then she has troubles?"
"My dear man, she has what we all have—even you, strange to say. She has a history."
"That's just what I want to hear," said Newman.
Valentin hesitated—an embarrassment rare with him. Then we shall have to appoint a special séance, with music or refreshments or a turn outside between the acts. Suffice it for the present that my sister's situation has been far from folichonne. She made, at eighteen, a marriage that was expected to be brilliant, but that, like a lamp that goes out, turned all to smoke and bad smell. M. de Cintré was fifty-five years old and pas du tout aimable. He lived, however, but three or four years, and after his death his family pounced upon his money, brought a lawsuit against his widow, pushed things very hard. Their case was good, for M. de Cintré, who had been trustee for some of his relatives, appeared to have been guilty of some very irregular practices. In the course of the suit some revelations were made as to his private history which my sister found so little to her taste that she ceased to defend herself and washed her hands of all her interests. This required some
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