starlight. Sometimes Newman kept his promise of following Mr. Tristram,
in half an hour, to the Occidental, and sometimes he forgot it. His
hostess asked him a great many questions about himself, but on this
subject he was an indifferent talker. He was not what is called
subjective, though when he felt that her interest was sincere, he made
an almost heroic attempt to be. He told her a great many things he
had done, and regaled her with anecdotes of Western life; she was from
Philadelphia, and with her eight years in Paris, talked of herself as a
languid Oriental. But some other person was always the hero of the tale,
by no means always to his advantage; and Newman's own emotions were but
scantily chronicled. She had an especial wish to know whether he had
ever been in love--seriously, passionately--and, failing to gather
any satisfaction from his allusions, she at last directly inquired. He
hesitated a while, and at last he said, "No!" She declared that she was
delighted to hear it, as it confirmed her private conviction that he was
a man of no feeling.

"Really?" he asked, very gravely. "Do you think so? How do you recognize
a man of feeling?"

"I can't make out," said Mrs. Tristram, "whether you are very simple or
very deep."

"I'm very deep. That's a fact."

"I believe that if I were to tell you with a certain air that you have
no feeling, you would implicitly believe me."

"A certain air?" said Newman. "Try it and see."