They walked farther and looked at a dozen other things.  Newman pointed out what pleased him, and Mademoiselle Noemie generally criticised it, and proposed something else.  Then suddenly she diverged and began to talk about some personal matter.

“What made you speak to me the other day in the Salon Carre?” she abruptly asked.

“I admired your picture.”

“But you hesitated a long time.”

“Oh, I do nothing rashly,” said Newman.

“Yes, I saw you watching me.  But I never supposed you were going to speak to me.  I never dreamed I should be walking about here with you to-day.  It’s very curious.”

“It is very natural,” observed Newman.

“Oh, I beg your pardon; not to me.  Coquette as you think me, I have never walked about in public with a gentleman before.  What was my father thinking of, when he consented to our interview?”

“He was repenting of his unjust accusations,” replied Newman.

Mademoiselle Noemie remained silent; at last she dropped into a seat.  “Well then, for those five it is fixed,” she said.  “Five copies as brilliant and beautiful as I can make them.  We have one more to choose.  Shouldn’t you like one of those great Rubenses—­the marriage of Marie de Medicis?  Just look at it and see how handsome it is.”

“Oh, yes; I should like that,” said Newman.  “Finish off with that.”

“Finish off with that—­good!” And she laughed.  She sat a moment, looking at him, and then she suddenly rose and stood before him, with her hands hanging and clasped in front of her.  “I don’t understand you,” she said with a smile.  “I don’t understand how a man can be so ignorant.”

“Oh, I am ignorant, certainly,” said Newman, putting his hands into his pockets.

“It’s ridiculous!  I don’t know how to paint.”

“You don’t know how?”

“I paint like a cat; I can’t draw a straight line.  I never sold a picture until you bought that thing the other day.”  And as she offered this surprising information she continued to smile.

Newman burst into a laugh.  “Why do you tell me this?” he asked.

“Because it irritates me to see a clever man blunder so.  My pictures are grotesque.”

“And the one I possess—­”

“That one is rather worse than usual.”

“Well,” said Newman, “I like it all the same!”

She looked at him askance.  “That is a very pretty thing to say,” she answered; “but it is my duty to warn you before you go farther.  This order of yours is impossible, you know.  What do you take me for?  It is work for ten men.  You pick out the six most difficult pictures in the Louvre, and you expect me to go to work as if I were sitting down to hem a dozen pocket handkerchiefs.  I wanted to see how far you would go.”