THE AMERICAN
"My address?" said mademoiselle. Then, with a little shrug: "Happily for you, you're a stranger—of a distinction qui se voit. It's the first time I ever gave my card to a gentleman." And, taking from her pocket a well-worn flat little wallet, she extracted from it a small glazed visiting-card and presented the latter to her client. It was neatly inscribed in pencil, with a great many flourishes, "Mlle. Noémie Nioche." But Mr. Newman, unlike his companion, read the name with perfect gravity; all French names to him were equally incommodes.
"And precisely—how it happens!—here's my father; he has come to escort me home," said Mademoiselle Noémie. "He speaks English beautifully. He 'll arrange with you." And she turned to welcome a little old gentleman who came shuffling up and peering over his glasses at Newman.
M. Nioche wore a glossy wig, of an unnatural colour, which overhung his little meek, white, vacant face, leaving it hardly more expressive than the unfeatured block upon which these articles are displayed in the barber's window. He was an exquisite image of shabby gentility. His scant, ill-made coat, desperately brushed, his darned gloves, his highly polished boots, his rusty, shapely hat, told the story of a person who had "had losses" and who clung to the spirit of nice habits even though the letter had been hopelessly effaced. Among other things M. Nioche had lost courage. Adversity had not only deprived him of means, it had deprived him of confidence—so frightened him that he was going through his remnant of life on tiptoe, lest he should wake up afresh
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