Newman suffered himself to be gently propelled in the direction in which he had been walking, but his step was not rapid.  He was turning something over in his mind.  The two men passed into the long gallery of the Italian masters, and Newman, after having scanned for a moment its brilliant vista, turned aside into the smaller apartment devoted to the same school, on the left.  It contained very few persons, but at the farther end of it sat Mademoiselle Nioche, before her easel.  She was not at work; her palette and brushes had been laid down beside her, her hands were folded in her lap, and she was leaning back in her chair and looking intently at two ladies on the other side of the hall, who, with their backs turned to her, had stopped before one of the pictures.  These ladies were apparently persons of high fashion; they were dressed with great splendor, and their long silken trains and furbelows were spread over the polished floor.  It was at their dresses Mademoiselle Noemie was looking, though what she was thinking of I am unable to say.  I hazard the supposition that she was saying to herself that to be able to drag such a train over a polished floor was a felicity worth any price.  Her reflections, at any rate, were disturbed by the advent of Newman and his companion.  She glanced at them quickly, and then, coloring a little, rose and stood before her easel.

“I came here on purpose to see you,” said Newman in his bad French, offering to shake hands.  And then, like a good American, he introduced Valentin formally:  “Allow me to make you acquainted with the Comte Valentin de Bellegarde.”

Valentin made a bow which must have seemed to Mademoiselle Noemie quite in harmony with the impressiveness of his title, but the graceful brevity of her own response made no concession to underbred surprise.  She turned to Newman, putting up her hands to her hair and smoothing its delicately-felt roughness.  Then, rapidly, she turned the canvas that was on her easel over upon its face.  “You have not forgotten me?” she asked.

“I shall never forget you,” said Newman.  “You may be sure of that.”

“Oh,” said the young girl, “there are a great many different ways of remembering a person.”  And she looked straight at Valentin de Bellegarde, who was looking at her as a gentleman may when a “verdict” is expected of him.

“Have you painted anything for me?” said Newman.  “Have you been industrious?”

“No, I have done nothing.”  And taking up her palette, she began to mix her colors at hazard.

“But your father tells me you have come here constantly.”

“I have nowhere else to go!  Here, all summer, it was cool, at least.”

“Being here, then,” said Newman, “you might have tried something.”

“I told you before,” she answered, softly, “that I don’t know how to paint.”

“But you have something charming on your easel, now,” said Valentin, “if you would only let me see it.”