At this M. Nioche decided to change his attitude.  He stooped and picked up the pug, lifted it to his face and wiped his eyes on its little soft back.  “I’m afraid to speak to you,” he presently said, looking over the puppy’s shoulder.  “I hoped you wouldn’t notice me.  I should have moved away, but I was afraid that if I moved you would notice me.  So I sat very still.”

“I suspect you have a bad conscience, sir,” said Newman.

The old man put down the little dog and held it carefully in his lap.  Then he shook his head, with his eyes still fixed upon his interlocutor.  “No, Mr. Newman, I have a good conscience,” he murmured.

“Then why should you want to slink away from me?”

“Because—­because you don’t understand my position.”

“Oh, I think you once explained it to me,” said Newman.  “But it seems improved.”

“Improved!” exclaimed M. Nioche, under his breath.  “Do you call this improvement?” And he glanced at the treasures in his arms.

“Why, you are on your travels,” Newman rejoined.  “A visit to London in the season is certainly a sign of prosperity.”

M. Nioche, in answer to this cruel piece of irony, lifted the puppy up to his face again, peering at Newman with his small blank eye-holes.  There was something almost imbecile in the movement, and Newman hardly knew whether he was taking refuge in a convenient affectation of unreason, or whether he had in fact paid for his dishonor by the loss of his wits.  In the latter case, just now, he felt little more tenderly to the foolish old man than in the former.  Responsible or not, he was equally an accomplice of his detestably mischievous daughter.  Newman was going to leave him abruptly, when a ray of entreaty appeared to disengage itself from the old man’s misty gaze.  “Are you going away?” he asked.

“Do you want me to stay?” said Newman.

“I should have left you—­from consideration.  But my dignity suffers at your leaving me—­that way.”

“Have you got anything particular to say to me?”

M. Nioche looked around him to see that no one was listening, and then he said, very softly but distinctly, “I have not forgiven her!”

Newman gave a short laugh, but the old man seemed for the moment not to perceive it; he was gazing away, absently, at some metaphysical image of his implacability.  “It doesn’t much matter whether you forgive her or not,” said Newman.  “There are other people who won’t, I assure you.”

“What has she done?” M. Nioche softly questioned, turning round again.  “I don’t know what she does, you know.”

“She has done a devilish mischief; it doesn’t matter what,” said Newman.  “She’s a nuisance; she ought to be stopped.”

M. Nioche stealthily put out his hand and laid it very gently upon Newman’s arm.  “Stopped, yes,” he whispered.  “That’s it.  Stopped short.  She is running away—­she must be stopped.”  Then he paused a moment and looked round him.  “I mean to stop her,” he went on.  “I am only waiting for my chance.”