e, looking at Newman.
"Tell M. de Bellegarde, when he wants news of me, to come and get it
from ME!" And she turned and departed, the white-aproned waiter, with a
bow, holding the door wide open for her.

M. Nioche sat motionless, and Newman hardly knew what to say to him. The
old man looked dismally foolish. "So you determined not to shoot her,
after all," Newman said, presently.

M. Nioche, without moving, raised his eyes and gave him a long, peculiar
look. It seemed to confess everything, and yet not to ask for pity, nor
to pretend, on the other hand, to a rugged ability to do without it. It
might have expressed the state of mind of an innocuous insect, flat
in shape and 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," said Newman, "it is none of my business. It's a good plan to
take things easily."

"I made you too many fine speeches," M. Nioche added. "I meant them at
the time."

"I am sure I am very glad you didn't shoot her," said Newman. "I was
afraid you might have shot yourself. That is why I came to look you up."
And he began to button his coat.

"Neither," said M. Nioche. "You despise me, and I can't explain to you.
I hoped I shouldn't see you again."

"Why, that's rather shabby," said Newman. "You shouldn't drop your
friends that way. Besides, the last time you came to see me I thought
you particularly jolly."

"Yes, I remember," said M. Nioche, musingly; "I was in a fever. I didn't
know what I said, what I did. It was delirium."

"Ah, well, you are quieter now."

M. Nioche was silent a moment. "As quiet as the grave," he whispered
softly.

"Are you very unhappy?"

M. Nioche rubbed his forehead slowly, and even pushed back his wig a
little, looking askance at his empty glass. "Yes--yes. But that's an old
story. I have always been unhappy. My daughter does what she will with
me. I take what she gives me, good or bad. I have no spirit, and when
you have no spirit you must keep quiet. I shan't trouble you any more."

"Well," said Newman, rather disgusted at the smooth operation of the old
man's philosophy, "that's as you please."

M. Nioche seemed to have been prepared to be despised but nevertheless
he made a feeble movement of appeal from Newman's faint praise. "After
all," he said, "she is my daughte