I want to celebrate my engagement." It seemed to Newman that Madame de Bellegarde turned pale.

She opened her fan, a fine old painted fan of the last century, and looked at the picture, which represented a fete champetre--a lady with a guitar, singing, and a group of dancers round a garlanded Hermes.
"We go out so little," murmured the marquis, "since my poor father's death." "But MY dear father is still alive, my friend," said his wife.

"I am only waiting for my invitation to accept it," and she glanced with amiable confidence at Newman.

"It will be magnificent; I am very 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 the old marquise.

She looked up at last, smiling.