tion in his face--or of anything indeed save a sort of feeble,
fascinated dread; Newman looked at the pug and the lace mantilla, and
then he met the old man's eyes again. "You know me, I see," he pursued.
"You might have spoken to me before." M. Nioche still said nothing,
but it seemed to Newman that his eyes began faintly to water. "I didn't
expect," our hero went on, "to meet you so far from--from the Cafe de la
Patrie." The old man remained silent, but decidedly Newman had touched
the source of tears. His neighbor sat staring and Newman added, "What's
the matter, M. Nioche? You used to talk--to talk very prettily. Don't
you remember you even gave lessons in conversation?"

At this M. Nioche decided to change his attitude. He stooped and picked
up the pug, lifted it to his face and wiped his eyes on its little soft
back. "I'm afraid to speak to you," he presently said, looking over the
puppy's shoulder. "I hoped you wouldn't notice me. I should have moved
away, but I was afraid that if I moved you would notice me. So I sat
very still."

"I suspect you have a bad conscience, sir," said Newman.

The old man put down the little dog and held it carefully in his lap.
Then he shook his head, with his eyes still fixed upon his interlocutor.
"No, Mr. Newman, I have a good conscience," he murmured.

"Then why should you want to slink away from me?"

"Because--because you don't understand my position."

"Oh, I think you once explained it to me," said Newman. "But it seems
improved."

"Improved!" exclaimed M. Nioche, under his breath. "Do you call this
improvement?" And he glanced at the treasures in his arms.

"Why, you are on your travels," Newman rejoined. "A visit to London in
the season is certainly a sign of prosperity."

M. Nioche, in answer to this cruel piece of irony, lifted the puppy up
to his face again, peering at Newman with his small blank eye-holes.
There was something almost imbecile in the movement, and Newman hardly
knew whether he was taking refuge in a convenient affectation of
unreason, or whether he had in fact paid for his dishonor by the loss of
his wits. In the latter case, just now, he felt little more tenderly
to the foolish old man than in the former. Responsible or not, he was
equally an accomplice of his detestably mischievous daughter. Newman
was going to leave him abruptly, when a ray of entreaty appeared to
disengage itself from the old man's misty gaze. "Are you going away?" he
asked.