a young and pretty woman, and it was surmounted with a coiffure of pink roses and diamonds.  This person was looking round the house, and her fan was moving to and fro with the most practiced grace; when she lowered it, Newman perceived a pair of plump white shoulders and the edge of a rose-colored dress.  Beside her, very close to the shoulders and talking, apparently with an earnestness which it pleased her scantily to heed, sat a young man with a red face and a very low shirt-collar.  A moment’s gazing left Newman with no doubts; the pretty young woman was Noemie Nioche.  He looked hard into the depths of the box, thinking her father might perhaps be in attendance, but from what he could see the young man’s eloquence had no other auditor.  Newman at last made his way out, and in doing so he passed beneath the baignoire of Mademoiselle Noemie.  She saw him as he approached and gave him a nod and smile which seemed meant as an assurance that she was still a good-natured girl, in spite of her enviable rise in the world.  Newman passed into the foyer and walked through it.  Suddenly he paused in front of a gentleman seated on one of the divans.  The gentleman’s elbows were on his knees; he was leaning forward and staring at the pavement, lost apparently in meditations of a somewhat gloomy cast.  But in spite of his bent head Newman recognized him, and in a moment sat down beside him.  Then the gentleman looked up and displayed the expressive countenance of Valentin de Bellegarde.

“What in the world are you thinking of so hard?” asked Newman.

“A subject that requires hard thinking to do it justice,” said Valentin.  “My immeasurable idiocy.”

“What is the matter now?”

“The matter now is that I am a man again, and no more a fool than usual.  But I came within an inch of taking that girl au serieux.”

“You mean the young lady below stairs, in a baignoire in a pink dress?” said Newman.

“Did you notice what a brilliant kind of pink it was?” Valentin inquired, by way of answer.  “It makes her look as white as new milk.”

“White or black, as you please.  But you have stopped going to see her?”

“Oh, bless you, no.  Why should I stop?  I have changed, but she hasn’t,” said Valentin.  “I see she is a vulgar little wretch, after all.  But she is as amusing as ever, and one must be amused.”

“Well, I am glad she strikes you so unpleasantly,” Newman rejoiced.  “I suppose you have swallowed all those fine words you used about her the other night.  You compared her to a sapphire, or a topaz, or an amethyst—­some precious stone; what was it?”

“I don’t remember,” said Valentin, “it may have been to a carbuncle!  But she won’t make a fool of me now.  She has no real charm.  It’s an awfully low thing to make a mistake about a person of that sort.”

“I congratulate you,” Newman declared, “upon the scales having fallen from your eyes.  It’s a great triumph; it ought to make you feel better.”