THE AMERICAN
The young Marquise held up her tapestry and pointed to a little white flower. "Don't ask me to leave this. I'm in the midst of a masterpiece. My little flower's going to smell very sweet; I'm putting in the smell with this gold-coloured silk. I'm holding my breath; I can't leave off. Play something yourself."
"It's absurd for me to play when you're present," Claire returned; yet the next moment she had plunged, as it were, into the source of music, had begun to strike the keys with vehemence. She sounded them for some time, to a great, and almost startling effect; when she stopped Newman went over and asked her to begin again. She shook her head and, on his insisting, said: "I've not been playing for you, I've been playing for myself." She went back to the window again and looked out, and shortly afterwards she left the room.
When he took leave Urbain de Bellegarde accompanied him, as always, just three steps down the staircase. At the bottom stood a servant with his overcoat. He had just put it on when he saw Madame de Cintré come to him across the vestibule. "Shall you be at home on Friday?" he asked.
She looked at him a moment before answering, and the servant moved away to the great house-door. "You don't like my mother and my brother. Ah, but not the least little bit!"
He hesitated a moment and then said ever so mildly: "Well, since you mention it—!"
She laid her hand on the balustrade and prepared to ascend the stairs, fixing her eyes on the first step.
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