"And precisely, here is my father, who has come to escort me home," said
Mademoiselle Noemie. "He speaks English. He will arrange with you."
And she turned to welcome a little old gentleman who came shuffling up,
peering over his spectacles at Newman.

M. Nioche wore a glossy wig, of an unnatural color which overhung his
little meek, white, vacant face, and left it hardly more expressive
than the unfeatured block upon which these articles are displayed in
the barber's window. He was an exquisite image of shabby gentility. His
scant ill-made coat, desperately brushed, his darned gloves, his highly
polished boots, his rusty, shapely hat, told the story of a person who
had "had losses" and who clung to the spirit of nice habits even though
the letter had been hopelessly effaced. Among other things M. Nioche had
lost courage. Adversity had not only ruined him, it had frightened him,
and he was evidently going through his remnant of life on tiptoe, for
fear of waking up the hostile fates. If this strange gentleman was
saying anything improper to his daughter, M. Nioche would entreat him
huskily, as a particular favor, to forbear; but he would admit at the
same time that he was very presumptuous to ask for particular favors.

"Monsieur has bought my picture," said Mademoiselle Noemie. "When it's
finished you'll carry it to him in a cab."

"In a cab!" cried M. Nioche; and he stared, in a bewildered way, as if
he had seen the sun rising at midnight.

"Are you the young lady's father?" said Newman. "I think she said you
speak English."