THE AMERICAN
looking at the wonderful world about her since she was ten years old, and he would have been a wise man who could tell her any secret of the town. In her long mornings at the Louvre she had not only studied Madonnas and Saint Johns; she had kept an eye upon the variously-embodied human nature in which the scene no less abounded, and she had formed her conclusions. In a degree, it seemed to Newman, M. Nioche might be at rest; if his daughter should assert her liberty in some unmistakeable way she would yet never publish her imprudence. Newman, with his long-drawn, leisurely smile and his articulation that suggested confidence in nothing but its motive, was always mentally taking his time; so he asked himself now what she was looking at him in that way for. He had an impression she would like him to confess that he did think her a wretch. "Oh no," he said at last; "it would be very impolite in me to judge you in any such way. I don't know you."
"But my father has complained to you."
"He says you're a free spirit."
"He shouldn't go about saying such things to gentlemen! But you don't believe it?"
"Well," said Newman conscientiously, "I don't believe he meant any harm by it."
She looked at him again, gave a shrug and a smile, and then pointed to a small Italian picture, a Marriage of Saint Catherine. "How should you like that?"
"It doesn't please me," he presently answered. "The young lady in the yellow dress is n't pretty enough."
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