THE AMERICAN
come. They did n't somehow presume to ask for pity, yet they doubtless pretended even less to a rugged ability to do without it. They might have expressed the state of mind of an innocuous insect, flat in shape, conscious of the impending pressure of a boot-sole and reflecting that he was perhaps too flat to be crushed. M. Nioche's gaze was a profession of moral flatness. "You despise me terribly," he said in the weakest possible voice.
"Oh no; it's not your own affair. And hanged if I understand your institutions anyway!"
"I made you too many fine speeches," M. Nioche added. "I meant them at the time."
"I'm sure I'm very glad you did n't shoot her," Newman went on. "I was afraid you might have shot yourself. That's why I came to look you up." And he began to button his coat.
"Neither, hélas! You despise me and I can't explain to you. I hoped I should n't see you again."
"Why, that's pretty mean," said Newman. "You should n't drop your friends that way. Besides, the last time you came to see me I thought you felt rather fine."
"Yes, I remember"—M. Nioche musingly recalled it. I must have been, I was, in a fever. I did n't know what I said, what I did. I spoke, no doubt, wild words."
"Ah well, you're quieter now."
M. Nioche bethought himself. "As quiet as the grave," he then struck off.
"Are you very unhappy?" Newman more ingenuously asked.
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