THE AMERICAN
ing. They let me have it full in the face. They told me to go about my business. It seems to me a very bad case. I'm sorry to have such a report to make of them. I'm angry, I'm sore, I'm sick."
Valentin lay there staring, his eyes more brilliantly lighted, his lips soundlessly parted, a flush of colour in his pale face. Newman had never before uttered so many words in the plaintive key, but now, in speaking to his friend in that friend's extremity, he had a sense of making his lament somewhere within the presence of the power that men pray to in trouble; he felt his outgush of resentment as a spiritual act, an appeal to higher protection. "And Claire," the young man breathed; "Claire? She has given you up?"
"I don't really believe it."
"No, don't believe it, don't believe it. She's gaining time. Believe that."
"I immensely pity her!" said Newman.
"Poor, poor Claire!" Valentin sighed. "But they—but they—?" And he paused again. "You saw them; they dismissed you, face to face?"
"Face to face—rather!"
"What did they say?"
"They said they could n't stand a commercial person."
Valentin put out his hand and laid it on Newman's arm. "And about their promise—their engagement with you?"
"They made a distinction. They said it was to hold good only until Madame de Cintré accepted me."
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