“Oh no,” said Newman, “it is none of my business.  It’s a good plan to take things easily.”

“I made you too many fine speeches,” M. Nioche added.  “I meant them at the time.”

“I am sure I am very glad you didn’t shoot her,” said Newman.  “I was afraid you might have shot yourself.  That is why I came to look you up.”  And he began to button his coat.

“Neither,” said M. Nioche.  “You despise me, and I can’t explain to you.  I hoped I shouldn’t see you again.”

“Why, that’s rather shabby,” said Newman.  “You shouldn’t drop your friends that way.  Besides, the last time you came to see me I thought you particularly jolly.”

“Yes, I remember,” said M. Nioche, musingly; “I was in a fever.  I didn’t know what I said, what I did.  It was delirium.”

“Ah, well, you are quieter now.”

M. Nioche was silent a moment.  “As quiet as the grave,” he whispered softly.

“Are you very unhappy?”

M. Nioche rubbed his forehead slowly, and even pushed back his wig a little, looking askance at his empty glass.  “Yes—­yes.  But that’s an old story.  I have always been unhappy.  My daughter does what she will with me.  I take what she gives me, good or bad.  I have no spirit, and when you have no spirit you must keep quiet.  I shan’t trouble you any more.”

“Well,” said Newman, rather disgusted at the smooth operation of the old man’s philosophy, “that’s as you please.”

M. Nioche seemed to have been prepared to be despised but nevertheless he made a feeble movement of appeal from Newman’s faint praise.  “After all,” he said, “she is my daughter, and I can still look after her.  If she will do wrong, why she will.  But there are many different paths, there are degrees.  I can give her the benefit—­give her the benefit”—­and M. Nioche paused, staring vaguely at Newman, who began to suspect that his brain had softened—­“the benefit of my experience,” M. Nioche added.

“Your experience?” inquired Newman, both amused and amazed.

“My experience of business,” said M. Nioche, gravely.

“Ah, yes,” said Newman, laughing, “that will be a great advantage to her!” And then he said good-by, and offered the poor, foolish old man his hand.

M. Nioche took it and leaned back against the wall, holding it a moment and looking up at him.  “I suppose you think my wits are going,” he said.  “Very likely; I have always a pain in my head.  That’s why I can’t explain, I can’t tell you.  And she’s so strong, she makes me walk as she will, anywhere!  But there’s this—­there’s this.”  And he stopped, still staring up at Newman.  His little white eyes expanded and glittered for a moment like those of a cat in the dark.  “It’s not as it seems.  I haven’t forgiven her.  Oh, no!”

“That’s right; don’t,” said Newman.  “She’s a bad case.”

“It’s horrible, it’s horrible,” said M. Nioche; “but do you want to know the truth?  I hate her!  I take what she gives me, and I hate her more.  To-day she brought me three hundred francs; they are here in my waistcoat pocket.  Now I hate her almost cruelly.  No, I haven’t forgiven her.”