Page:The Novels and Tales of Henry James, Volume 2 (New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1907).djvu/469

THE AMERICAN words represented to him for the moment, and quite as to the point of high interest, a wondrous triumph of infernal art.

"It was because she was so good that she gave up—poor sweet lady!" added Mrs. Bread.

"But she was better to them than to me."

"She was afraid," said Mrs. Bread very confidently; "she has always been afraid, or at least for a long time. Her fear was there—it was always like a pit that yawned for her. That was the real trouble, sir. She was just a fair peach, I may say, with but one little speck. She had one little sad spot. You pushed her into the sunshine, sir, and it almost disappeared. Then they pulled her back into the shade, and in a moment it began to spread. Before we knew it she was gone. She was a delicate creature."

This singular attestation of Madame de Cintré's delicacy, for all its singularity, set Newman's wound aching afresh. "I see. She knew something bad about her mother."

"No, sir, she knew nothing." And Mrs. Bread held her head very stiff and kept her watch on the glimmering windows of the residence.

"She guessed something then, or suspected it."

"She was afraid to know," said Mrs. Bread.

"But you know, at any rate."

She slowly turned her vague eyes on him, squeezing her hands together in her lap. "You're not quite faithful, sir. I thought it was to tell me about the Count you asked me to come."

"Oh, the more we talk of the Count the better," he declared. "That's exactly what I want. I was 439