 aggregation of
copper coins, and in the minute subdivision of labour and profit. He questioned
M. Nioche about his own manner of life, and felt a friendly mixture of
compassion and respect over the recital of his delicate frugalities. The worthy
man told him how, at one period, he and his daughter had supported existence,
comfortably, upon the sum of fifteen sous per diem; recently, having succeeded
in hauling ashore the last floating fragments of the wreck of his fortune, his
budget had been a trifle more ample. But they still had to count their sous very
narrowly, and M. Nioche intimated with a sigh that Mademoiselle Noémie did not
bring to this task that zealous co-operation which might have been desired.
    »But what will you have?« he asked, philosophically. »One is young, one is
pretty, one needs new dresses and fresh gloves; one can't wear shabby gowns
among the splendours of the Louvre.«
    »But your daughter earns enough to pay for her own clothes,« said Newman.
    M. Nioche looked at him with weak, uncertain eyes. He would have liked to be
able to say that his daughter's talents were appreciated, and that her crooked
little daubs commanded a market; but it seemed a scandal to abuse the credulity
of this free-handed stranger, who, without a suspicion or a question, had
admitted him to equal social rights. He compromised, and declared that while it
was obvious that Mademoiselle Noémie's reproductions of the old masters had only
to be seen to be coveted, the prices which, in consideration of their altogether
peculiar degree of finish she felt obliged to ask for them, had kept purchasers
at a respectful distance. »Poor little one!« said M. Nioche, with a sigh; »it is
almost a pity that her work is so perfect! It would be in her interest to paint
less well.«
    »But if Mademoiselle Noémie has this devotion to her art,« Newman once
observed, »why should you have those fears for her that you spoke of the other
day?«
    M. Nioche meditated; there was an inconsistency in his position; it made him
chronically uncomfortable. Though he had no desire to destroy the goose with the
golden eggs - Newman's benevolent confidence - he felt a tremulous impulse to
speak out all his trouble. »Ah, she is an artist, my dear sir, most assuredly,«
he declared. »But to tell you the truth, she is also a franche coquette. I am
sorry to say,«
