THE AMERICAN
"I see," Newman dryly enough laughed. "She's running away and you're running after her. You've run a long distance."
But M. Nioche had a competent upward nod, "Oh, I know what to do!"
He had hardly spoken when the crowd in front of them separated as if by the impulse to make way for an important personage. Presently, through the opening, advanced Mademoiselle Nioche, attended by the gentleman Newman had lately observed. His face being now presented to our hero, the latter recognised the irregular features and the hardly more composed expression of Lord Deepmere. Noémie, on finding herself suddenly confronted with Newman, who, like M. Nioche, had risen from his seat, faltered for a barely perceptible instant. She gave him a little nod, as if she had seen him yesterday, and then, without agitation, "Tiens, how we keep meeting!" she sweetly shrilled. She looked consummately pretty and the front of her dress was a wonderful work of art. She went up to her father, stretching out her hands for the little dog, which he submissively placed in them, and she began to kiss it and murmur over it: "To think of leaving him all alone, mon bichon—what a horrid false friend he must believe me! He has been very unwell," she added, turning and affecting to explain to Newman, a spark of infernal impudence, fine as a needle-point, lighted in each charming eye. "I don't think the English climate does for him."
"It seems to do wonderfully well for his mistress," Newman said.
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