“The matter now is that I am a man again, and no more a fool than usual. But I came within an inch of taking that girl au sérieux.”
“You mean the young lady below stairs, in a baignoire in a pink dress?” said Newman.
“Did you notice what a brilliant kind of pink it was?” Valentin inquired, by way of answer. “It makes her look as white as new milk.”
“White or black, as you please. But you have stopped going to see her?”
“Oh, bless you, no. Why should I stop? I have changed, but she hasn’t,” said Valentin. “I see she is a vulgar little wretch, after all. But she is as amusing as ever, and one must be amused.”
“Well, I am glad she strikes you so unpleasantly,” Newman rejoiced. “I suppose you have swallowed all those fine words you used about her the other night. You compared her to a sapphire, or a topaz, or an amethyst—some precious stone; what was it?”
“I don’t remember,” said Valentin, “it may have been to a carbuncle! But she won’t make a fool of me now. She has no real charm. It’s an awfully low thing to make a mistake about a person of that sort.”
“I congratulate you,” Newman declared, “upon the scales having fallen from your eyes. It’s a great triumph; it ought to make you feel better.”
“Yes, it makes me feel better!” said Valentin, gaily. Then, checking himself, he looked askance at Newman. “I rather think you are laughing at me. If you were not one of the family I would take it up.”
“Oh, no, I’m not laughing, any more than I am one of the family. You make me feel badly. You are too clever a fellow, you are made of too good stuff, to spend your time in ups and downs over that class of goods. The idea of splitting hairs about Miss Nioche! It seems to me awfully foolish. You say you have given up taking her seriously; but you take her seriously so long as you take her at all.”