of his life, and now he was already thinking of art-patronage as a
fascinating pursuit. His reflections quickened his good-humor, and he
was on the point of approaching the young man with another "Combien?"
Two or three facts in this relation are noticeable, although the logical
chain which connects them may seem imperfect. He knew Mademoiselle
Nioche had asked too much; he bore her no grudge for doing so, and he
was determined to pay the young man exactly the proper sum. At this
moment, however, his attention was attracted by a gentleman who had come
from another part of the room and whose manner was that of a stranger
to the gallery, although he was equipped with neither guide-book nor
opera-glass. He carried a white sun-umbrella, lined with blue silk, and
he strolled in front of the Paul Veronese, vaguely looking at it, but
much too near to see anything but the grain of the canvas. Opposite to
Christopher Newman he paused and turned, and then our friend, who had
been observing him, had a chance to verify a suspicion aroused by an
imperfect view of his face. The result of this larger scrutiny was that
he presently sprang to his feet, strode across the room, and, with an
outstretched hand, arrested the gentleman with the blue-lined umbrella.
The latter stared, but put out his hand at a venture. He was corpulent
and rosy, and though his countenance, which was ornamented with a
beautiful flaxen beard, carefully divided in the middle and brushed
outward at the sides, was not remarkable for intensity of expression,
he looked like a person who would willingly shake hands with any one.
I know not what Newman thought of his face, but he found a want of
response in his grasp.

"Oh, come, come," he said, laughing; "don't say, now, you don't know
me--if I have NOT got a white parasol!"

The sound of his voice quickened the other's memory, his face expanded