THE AMERICAN
the object of all that of his neighbour, who was staring up at him from a pair of little fixed white eyes. These eyes he instantly recognised; he had been sitting for the last quarter of an hour beside M. Nioche. He had vaguely felt himself in range of some feeble fire. M. Nioche continued to stare; he appeared afraid to move even to the extent of saving by flight what might have been left of his honour.
"Good Lord!" said Newman; "are you here too?" And he looked at his neighbour's helplessness more grimly than he knew. M. Nioche had a new hat and a pair of kid gloves; his clothes too seemed to belong to an eld less hoary than of yore. Over his arm was suspended a lady's mantilla—a light and brilliant tissue, fringed with white lace—which had apparently been committed to his keeping; and the little dog's blue ribbon was wound tightly round his hand. There was no hint of recognition in his face—nor of anything save a feeble fascinated dread. Newman looked at the pug and the lace mantilla and then met the old man's eyes again. "You know me, I see," he pursued. "You might have spoken to me before." M. Nioche still said nothing, but it seemed to his ex-patron that his eyes began faintly to water. "I did n't expect," the latter went on, "to meet you so far from—from the Café de la Patrie." He remained silent, but decidedly Newman had touched the source of tears. His neighbour sat staring and he added: "What's the matter, M. Nioche? You used to talk, talk very—what did you call it?—very gentiment. Don't you remember you even gave lessons in conversation?"
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