“He says thou art very clever.” 

 “It is very possible. You believe it yourself, my father?” 

 “Believe it, my daughter? With this evidence!” And the old man turned afresh, with a staring, wondering homage, to the audacious daub on the easel. 

 “Ask him, then, if he would not like to learn French.” 

 “To learn French?” 

 “To take lessons.” 

 “To take lessons, my daughter? From thee?” 

 “From you!” 

 “From me, my child? How should I give lessons?” 

 “Pas de raisons! Ask him immediately!” said Mademoiselle Noémie, with soft brevity. 

 M. Nioche stood aghast, but under his daughter’s eye he collected his wits, and, doing his best to assume an agreeable smile, he executed her commands. “Would it please you to receive instruction in our beautiful language?” he inquired, with an appealing quaver. 

 “To study French?” asked Newman, staring. 

 M. Nioche pressed his finger-tips together and slowly raised his shoulders. “A little conversation!” 

 “Conversation—that’s it!” murmured Mademoiselle Noémie, who had caught the word. “The conversation of the best society.” 

 “Our French conversation is famous, you know,” M. Nioche ventured to continue. “It’s a great talent.” 

 “But isn’t it awfully difficult?” asked Newman, very simply. 

 “Not to a man of esprit, like monsieur, an admirer of beauty in every form!” and M. Nioche cast a significant glance at his daughter’s Madonna. 

 “I can’t fancy myself chattering French!” said Newman with a laugh. “And yet, I suppose that the more a man knows the better.” 

 “Monsieur expresses that very happily. Hélas, oui!” 

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