of compassion and respect over the recital of his delicate frugalities.  The worthy man told him how, at one period, he and his daughter had supported existence comfortably upon the sum of fifteen sous per diem; recently, having succeeded in hauling ashore the last floating fragments of the wreck of his fortune, his budget had been a trifle more ample.  But they still had to count their sous very narrowly, and M. Nioche intimated with a sigh that Mademoiselle Noemie did not bring to this task that zealous cooperation which might have been desired.

“But what will you have?"’ he asked, philosophically.  “One is young, one is pretty, one needs new dresses and fresh gloves; one can’t wear shabby gowns among the splendors of the Louvre.”

“But your daughter earns enough to pay for her own clothes,” said Newman.

M. Nioche looked at him with weak, uncertain eyes.  He would have liked to be able to say that his daughter’s talents were appreciated, and that her crooked little daubs commanded a market; but it seemed a scandal to abuse the credulity of this free-handed stranger, who, without a suspicion or a question, had admitted him to equal social rights.  He compromised, and declared that while it was obvious that Mademoiselle Noemie’s reproductions of the old masters had only to be seen to be coveted, the prices which, in consideration of their altogether peculiar degree of finish, she felt obliged to ask for them had kept purchasers at a respectful distance.  “Poor little one!” said M. Nioche, with a sigh; “it is almost a pity that her work is so perfect!  It would be in her interest to paint less well.”

“But if Mademoiselle Noemie has this devotion to her art,” Newman once observed, “why should you have those fears for her that you spoke of the other day?”

M. Nioche meditated:  there was an inconsistency in his position; it made him chronically uncomfortable.  Though he had no desire to destroy the goose with the golden eggs—­Newman’s benevolent confidence—­he felt a tremulous impulse to speak out all his trouble.  “Ah, she is an artist, my dear sir, most assuredly,” he declared.  “But, to tell you the truth, she is also a franche coquette.  I am sorry to say,” he added in a moment, shaking his head with a world of harmless bitterness, “that she comes honestly by it.  Her mother was one before her!”

“You were not happy with your wife?” Newman asked.

M. Nioche gave half a dozen little backward jerks of his head.  “She was my purgatory, monsieur!”

“She deceived you?”

“Under my nose, year after year.  I was too stupid, and the temptation was too great.  But I found her out at last.  I have only been once in my life a man to be afraid of; I know it very well; it was in that hour!  Nevertheless I don’t like to think of it.  I loved her—­I can’t tell you how much.  She was a bad woman.”

“She is not living?”

“She has gone to her account.”