THE AMERICAN
"To take lessons, my daughter? From thee?"
"From thee."
"From me, my child? How should I give lessons?"
"Pas de raisons! Ask him immediately!" said Mademoiselle Noémie with soft shortness.
M. Nioche stood aghast, but under his daughter's eye he collected his wits and, doing his best to assume an agreeable smile, executed her commands. "Would it please you to receive instruction in our beautiful language?" he brought out with an appealing quaver.
"To study French?" Newman was rather struck.
M. Nioche pressed his finger-tips together and slowly raised his shoulders. "A little practice in conversation!"
"Practice, conversation—that's it!" murmured Mademoiselle Noémie, who had caught the words. "The conversation of the best society."
"Our French conversation is rather famous, you know," M. Nioche ventured to continue. "It's the genius of our nation."
"But—except for your nation—is n't it almost impossible?" asked Newman very simply.
"Not to a man of esprit like monsieur, an admirer of beauty in every form!" And M. Nioche cast a significant glance at his daughter's Madonna.
"I can't fancy myself reeling off fluent French!" Newman protested. "And yet I suppose the more things, the more names of things, a man knows, the better he can get round."
"Monsieur expresses that very happily. The better he can get round. Hélas, out!
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