THE AMERICAN
"I'm very curious to see how it ends," Newman less critically continued.
"You speak as if it were a feuilleton in the Figaro," observed the Marquis. "You've surely seen the opera before?"
"Never—I 'm sure I should have remembered it. Donna Elvira reminds me of Madame de Cintré; I don't mean in her situation, but in her lovely tone."
"It's a very nice distinction," the Marquis neatly conceded. "There's no possibility, I imagine, of my sister's being forsaken."
"That's right, sir," Newman said. "But what becomes of the Don?"
"The Devil comes down—or comes up—and carries him off," Madame Urbain replied. "I suppose Zerlina reminds you of me."
"I 'll go to the foyer for a few moments," said her husband, "and give you a chance to say that I'm like the Commander—the man of stone." With which he passed out of the box.
The little Marquise stared an instant at the velvet ledge of the balcony and then murmured: "Not a man of stone, a man of wood!" Newman had taken her husband's empty chair; she made no protest, but turned suddenly and laid her closed fan on his arm. "I'm very glad you came in; I want to ask you a favour. I wanted to do so on Thursday, at my mother-in-law's ball, but you would give me no chance. You were in such very good spirits that I thought you might grant my little prayer then; not that you look particularly doleful now. It's some thing you must promise me; now's the time to take
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