THE AMERICAN
ter. Newman shook his hand with muscular friendliness and Valentin returned his greeting with high consideration. While the old man stood waiting for Noémie to make a parcel of her implements he let his mild oblique gaze play over this new acquaintance, who was watching her put on her bonnet and mantle. Valentin was at no pains to disguise the benevolence of his own interest. He looked at a pretty person as he would have listened to a good piece of music. Intelligent participation was in such a case simple good manners. M. Nioche at last took his daughter's paint box in one hand and the bedaubed canvas, after giving it a solemn puzzled stare, in the other, and led the way to the door. Noémie followed him after making her late interlocutors the formal obeisance of the perfectly-educated female young.
"Well," said Newman, "what do you think of her?"
"She's very remarkable. Diable, diable, diable! his friend reflectively repeated; "she's the perfection of the type."
"I'm afraid she's a sad little trifler," Newman conscientiously remarked.
"Not a little one—rather an immense one. She has all the material." And Valentin began to walk slowly off, looking vaguely, though with eyes now so opened, at the pictures on the walls. Nothing could have appealed to his imagination more than the possible futility of a young lady so equipped for futility. "She's very interesting," he went on. "Yes, the type shines out in her."
"The type? The type of what?"
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