"I can do nothing else; I have no real talent."
"You are deceiving your father, then."
The young girl hesitated a moment. "He knows very well!"
"No," Newman declared; "I am sure he believes in you."
"He is afraid of me. I go on painting badly, as you say, because I want to learn. I like it, at any rate. And I like being here; it is a place to come to, every day; it is better than sitting in a little dark, damp room, on a court, or selling buttons and whalebones over a counter."
"Of course it is much more amusing," said Newman. "But for a poor girl isn't it rather an expensive amusement?"
"Oh, I am very wrong, there is no doubt about that," said Mademoiselle Noemie. "But rather than earn my living as some girls do — toiling with a needle, in little black holes, out of the world — I would throw myself into the Seine."
"There is no need of that," Newman answered; "your father told you my offer?"
"He wants you to marry, and I told him I would give you a chance to earn your dot."
"He told me all about it, and you see the account I make of it! Why should you take such an interest in my marriage?"
"My interest was in your father. I hold to my offer; do what you can, and I will buy what you paint."
She stood for some time, meditating, with her eyes on the ground. At last, looking up, "What sort of a husband can you get for twelve thousand francs?" she asked.
"Your father tells me he knows some very good young men."
"Grocers and butchers and little maitres de cafes! I will not marry at all if I can't marry well."
"I would advise you not to be too fastidious," said Newman. "That's all the advice I can give you."
"I am very much vexed at what I have said!" cried the young girl. "It has done me no good. But I couldn't help it."
"What good did you expect it to do you?"
"I couldn't help it, simply."
Newman looked at her a moment. "Well, your pictures may be bad," he said, "but you are too clever for me, nevertheless. I don't understand you. Good-by!" And he put out his hand.
She made no response, and offered him no farewell. She turned away and seated herself sidewise on a bench, leaning her head on the back of her hand, which clasped the rail in front of the pictures. Newman stood a moment and then turned on his heel and retreated. He had understood her better than he confessed; this singular scene was a practical commentary upon her father's statement that she was a frank coquette.