He felt as one does in missing a step, in an ascent, where one expected to find it.

This strange, pretty woman, sitting in fire-side talk with her brother, in the gray depths of her inhospitable-looking house--what had he to say to her?
She seemed enveloped in a sort of fantastic privacy; on what grounds had he pulled away the curtain?
For a moment he felt as if he had plunged into some medium as deep as the ocean, and as if he must exert himself to keep from sinking.

Meanwhile he was looking at Madame de Cintre, and she was settling herself in her chair and drawing in her long dress and turning her face towards him.

Their eyes met; a moment afterwards she looked away and motioned to her brother to put a log on the fire.

But the moment, and the glance which traversed it, had been sufficient to relieve Newman of the first and the last fit of personal embarrassment he was ever to know.