THE AMERICAN
a quarter of an hour. Valentin listened and questioned, making his friend laugh at his ignorance of the very alphabet of affairs, smiling himself too, half ironical and half curious. And yet he was serious and nearly convinced, fascinated as by the biggest, plainest map of the great land of El Dorado ever spread before him. It is true, withal, that if it might be bold, original and even amusing to surrender his faded escutcheon to the process, the smart patent transatlantic process, of heavy regilding, he did n't quite relish the freedom with which it might be handled, and yet suddenly felt eager to know the worst that might await him. So that when the bell rang to indicate the close of the entr'acte there was a certain mock-heroism in his saying all gaily: "Well then, put me through; locate me and fix me! I make myself over to you. Dip me into the pot and turn me into gold."
They had passed into the corridor which encircled the row of baignoires, and Valentin stopped in front of the dusky little box in which Mademoiselle Nioche had bestowed herself, laying his hand on the door-knob. "Oh come, are you going back there?" Newman hereupon asked.
"Mon Dieu, oui," said Valentin.
"Have n't you another place?"
"Yes, I've my usual place in the stalls."
"You had better go then and occupy it."
"I see her very well from there too," Valentin went on serenely; "and to-night she's worth seeing. But," he added in a moment, "I've a particular reason for going back just now."
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