THE AMERICAN
"I think it odious!" said Mrs. Tristram. And then in a moment: "I think it delicious!"
The very next evening Newman repaired to Madame de Bellegarde's own drawing-room, where he found her surrounded by her children and invited her to honour his poor dwelling by her presence on a certain evening a fortnight distant.
The Marquise stared a moment. "My dear sir," she cried, "what on earth do you want to do to me?"
"To make you acquainted with a few people and then to place you in a very easy chair and ask you to listen to Madame Frezzolini's singing."
"You mean to give a concert?"
"Something of that sort."
"And to have a crowd of people?"
"All my friends, and I hope some of yours and your daughter's. I want to celebrate my engagement."
It seemed to him she had turned perceptibly pale. She opened her fan, a fine old painted fan of the last century, and looked at the picture, which represented a fête champêtre—a lady singing to a guitar and a group of dancers round a garlanded Hermes. "We go out so little," her elder son murmured, "since my poor father's death."
"But my poor father's still alive, my friend," said his wife. "I'm only waiting for my invitation to accept it;" and she glanced with amiable confidence at Newman. "It will be magnificent, I'm sure of that."
I am sorry to say, to the discredit of Newman's gallantry, that this lady's invitation was not then and there bestowed; he was giving all his attention to her
284
