"Speak English--yes," said the old man slowly rubbing his hands. "I will
bring it in a cab."

"Say something, then," cried his daughter. "Thank him a little--not too
much."

"A little, my daughter, a little?" said M. Nioche perplexed. "How much?"

"Two thousand!" said Mademoiselle Noemie. "Don't make a fuss or he'll
take back his word."

"Two thousand!" cried the old man, and he began to fumble for his
snuff-box. He looked at Newman from head to foot; he looked at his
daughter and then at the picture. "Take care you don't spoil it!" he
cried almost sublimely.

"We must go home," said Mademoiselle Noemie. "This is a good day's work.
Take care how you carry it!" And she began to put up her utensils.

"How can I thank you?" said M. Nioche. "My English does not suffice."

"I wish I spoke French as well," said Newman, good-naturedly. "Your
daughter is very clever."

"Oh, sir!" and M. Nioche looked over his spectacles with tearful eyes
and nodded several times with a world of sadness. "She has had an
education--tres-superieure! Nothing was spared. Lessons in pastel at ten
francs the lesson, lessons in oil at twelve francs. I didn't look at the
francs then. She's an artiste, ah!"