She spread out her two hands, with the fingers expanded, over the back of the canvas—­those hands which Newman had called pretty, and which, in spite of several paint-stains, Valentin could now admire.  “My painting is not charming,” she said.

“It is the only thing about you that is not, then, mademoiselle,” quoth Valentin, gallantly.

She took up her little canvas and silently passed it to him.  He looked at it, and in a moment she said, “I am sure you are a judge.”

“Yes,” he answered, “I am.”

“You know, then, that that is very bad.”

“Mon Dieu,” said Valentin, shrugging his shoulders “let us distinguish.”

“You know that I ought not to attempt to paint,” the young girl continued.

“Frankly, then, mademoiselle, I think you ought not.”

She began to look at the dresses of the two splendid ladies again—­a point on which, having risked one conjecture, I think I may risk another.  While she was looking at the ladies she was seeing Valentin de Bellegarde.  He, at all events, was seeing her.  He put down the roughly-besmeared canvas and addressed a little click with his tongue, accompanied by an elevation of the eyebrows, to Newman.

“Where have you been all these months?” asked Mademoiselle Noemie of our hero.  “You took those great journeys, you amused yourself well?”

“Oh, yes,” said Newman.  “I amused myself well enough.”

“I am very glad,” said Mademoiselle Noemie with extreme gentleness, and she began to dabble in her colors again.  She was singularly pretty, with the look of serious sympathy that she threw into her face.

Valentin took advantage of her downcast eyes to telegraph again to his companion.  He renewed his mysterious physiognomical play, making at the same time a rapid tremulous movement in the air with his fingers.  He was evidently finding Mademoiselle Noemie extremely interesting; the blue devils had departed, leaving the field clear.

“Tell me something about your travels,” murmured the young girl.

“Oh, I went to Switzerland,—­to Geneva and Zermatt and Zurich and all those places you know; and down to Venice, and all through Germany, and down the Rhine, and into Holland and Belgium—­the regular round.  How do you say that, in French—­the regular round?” Newman asked of Valentin.

Mademoiselle Nioche fixed her eyes an instant on Bellegarde, and then with a little smile, “I don’t understand monsieur,” she said, “when he says so much at once.  Would you be so good as to translate?”

“I would rather talk to you out of my own head,” Valentin declared.

“No,” said Newman, gravely, still in his bad French, “you must not talk to Mademoiselle Nioche, because you say discouraging things.  You ought to tell her to work, to persevere.”

“And we French, mademoiselle,” said Valentin, “are accused of being false flatterers!”

“I don’t want any flattery, I want only the truth.  But I know the truth.”