THE AMERICAN
eyes it lent an identity to the commonplace elegance of the back view of a young lady walking in the same direction as himself. Mademoiselle Nioche, seeking her fortune, had apparently thought she might find it faster in London, and another glance led him to wonder if she might now have lighted on it. A gentleman strolled beside her, lending an attentive ear to her conversation and too beguiled to open his lips. Newman caught no sound of him, but had the impression of English shoulders, an English "fit," an English silence. Mademoiselle Nioche was attracting attention: the ladies who passed her turned round as with a sense of the Parisian finish. A great cataract of flounces rolled down from the young lady's waist to Newman's feet; he had to step aside to avoid treading on them. He stepped aside indeed with a decision of movement that the occasion scarcely demanded; for even this imperfect glimpse of Miss Noémie had sharpened again his constant soreness. She seemed an odious blot on the face of nature; he wanted to put her out of his sight. He thought of Valentin de Bellegarde still green in the earth of his burial, his young life giving way to this flourishing impudence. The fragrance of the girl's bravery quite sickened him; he turned his head and tried to keep his distance; but the pressure of the crowd held him near her a minute longer, so that he heard what she was saying.
"Ah, I'm sure he'll miss me," she murmured. "It was very cruel of me to leave him; I'm afraid you'll think I've very little heart. He might perfectly have remained with us. I don't think he's very well,"
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