Newman looked at the young girl in some perplexity.  In spite of the ridiculous blunder of which he stood convicted, he was very far from being a simpleton, and he had a lively suspicion that Mademoiselle Noemie’s sudden frankness was not essentially more honest than her leaving him in error would have been.  She was playing a game; she was not simply taking pity on his aesthetic verdancy.  What was it she expected to win?  The stakes were high and the risk was great; the prize therefore must have been commensurate.  But even granting that the prize might be great, Newman could not resist a movement of admiration for his companion’s intrepidity.  She was throwing away with one hand, whatever she might intend to do with the other, a very handsome sum of money.

“Are you joking,” he said, “or are you serious?”

“Oh, serious!” cried Mademoiselle Noemie, but with her extraordinary smile.

“I know very little about pictures or now they are painted.  If you can’t do all that, of course you can’t.  Do what you can, then.”

“It will be very bad,” said Mademoiselle Noemie.

“Oh,” said Newman, laughing, “if you are determined it shall be bad, of course it will.  But why do you go on painting badly?”

“I can do nothing else; I have no real talent.”

“You are deceiving your father, then.”

The young girl hesitated a moment.  “He knows very well!”

“No,” Newman declared; “I am sure he believes in you.”

“He is afraid of me.  I go on painting badly, as you say, because I want to learn.  I like it, at any rate.  And I like being here; it is a place to come to, every day; it is better than sitting in a little dark, damp room, on a court, or selling buttons and whalebones over a counter.”

“Of course it is much more amusing,” said Newman.  “But for a poor girl isn’t it rather an expensive amusement?”

“Oh, I am very wrong, there is no doubt about that,” said Mademoiselle Noemie.  “But rather than earn my living as same girls do—­toiling with a needle, in little black holes, out of the world—­I would throw myself into the Seine.”

“There is no need of that,” Newman answered; “your father told you my offer?”

“Your offer?”

“He wants you to marry, and I told him I would give you a chance to earn your dot.”

“He told me all about it, and you see the account I make of it!  Why should you take such an interest in my marriage?”

“My interest was in your father.  I hold to my offer; do what you can, and I will buy what you paint.”

She stood for some time, meditating, with her eyes on the ground.  At last, looking up, “What sort of a husband can you get for twelve thousand francs?” she asked.

“Your father tells me he knows some very good young men.”

“Grocers and butchers and little maitres de cafes!  I will not marry at all if I can’t marry well.”