“The honor is not less for me,” the young lady answered, “for I am sure monsieur has a great deal of taste.” 

 “But you must give me your card,” Newman said; “your card, you know.” 

 The young lady looked severe for an instant, and then said, “My father will wait upon you.” 

 But this time Mr. Newman’s powers of divination were at fault. “Your card, your address,” he simply repeated. 

 “My address?” said mademoiselle. Then with a little shrug, “Happily for you, you are an American! It is the first time I ever gave my card to a gentleman.” And, taking from her pocket a rather greasy portemonnaie, she extracted from it a small glazed visiting card, and presented the latter to her patron. It was neatly inscribed in pencil, with a great many flourishes, “Mlle. Noémie Nioche.” But Mr. Newman, unlike his companion, read the name with perfect gravity; all French names to him were equally droll. 

 “And precisely, here is my father, who has come to escort me home,” said Mademoiselle Noémie. “He speaks English. He will arrange with you.” And she turned to welcome a little old gentleman who came shuffling up, peering over his spectacles at Newman. 

 M. Nioche wore a glossy wig, of an unnatural color which overhung his little meek, white, vacant face, and left it hardly more expressive than the unfeatured block upon which these articles are displayed in the barber’s window. He was an exquisite image of shabby gentility. His scant ill-made coat, desperately brushed, his darned gloves, his highly polished boots, his rusty, shapely hat, told the story of a person who had “had losses” and who clung to the spirit of nice habits even though the letter had been hopelessly effaced. Among other things M. Nioche had lost courage. Adversity had not only ruined him, it had frightened him, and he was evidently going through his remnant of life on tiptoe, for fear of waking up the hostile fates. If this strange gentleman was saying anything improper to his daughter, M. Nioche would entreat him huskily, as a particular favor, to forbear; but he would admit at the same time that he was very presumptuous to ask for particular favors. 

 “Monsieur has bought my picture,” said Mademoiselle Noémie. “When it’s finished you’ll carry it to him in a cab.” 

 “In a cab!” cried M. Nioche; and he stared, in a bewildered way, as if he had seen the sun rising at midnight. 

 “Are you the young lady’s father?” 

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