THE AMERICAN
lively suspicion that her burst of confidence was not essentially more honest than her original pretence. She was playing a great game; she was not simply taking pity on the bloom of his barbarism. What was it she expected to gain? The stakes were high and the risk not small; the prize therefore must have been commensurate. But even granting that the prize might be great Newman could scarce resist a movement of admiration for his young friend's intrepidity. She was throwing away with one hand, whatever she might intend to do with the other, a substantial sum of money. "Are you joking or serious?"
"Oh, d 'un serieux!" she cried, but with her extraordinary smile.
"I know very little about pictures or how they're really painted. If you can't do all, why then do what you conveniently can."
"It will all be bad à faire pleurer," said Mademoiselle Noémie.
"Oh," Newman laughed, "if you want to swindle me of course you can. But why do you go on painting badly?"
"I can do nothing else; I've neither eye nor hand nor training. Above all I have n't patience."
"You're deceiving your father then."
The girl just hesitated. "He perfectly knows."
"No," Newman declared; "I'm sure he believes in you."
"He's afraid of me, poor dear. I go on painting badly, as you say, because it passes the time. I like being here; it's a place to come to every day; it's
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