“Do you want me to stay?” said Newman.
“I should have left you—from consideration. But my dignity suffers at your leaving me—that way.”
“Have you got anything particular to say to me?”
M. Nioche looked around him to see that no one was listening, and then he said, very softly but distinctly, “I have not forgiven her!”
Newman gave a short laugh, but the old man seemed for the moment not to perceive it; he was gazing away, absently, at some metaphysical image of his implacability. “It doesn’t much matter whether you forgive her or not,” said Newman. “There are other people who won’t, I assure you.”
“What has she done?” M. Nioche softly questioned, turning round again. “I don’t know what she does, you know.”
“She has done a devilish mischief; it doesn’t matter what,” said Newman. “She’s a nuisance; she ought to be stopped.”
M. Nioche stealthily put out his hand and laid it very gently upon Newman’s arm. “Stopped, yes,” he whispered. “That’s it. Stopped short. She is running away—she must be stopped.” Then he paused a moment and looked round him. “I mean to stop her,” he went on. “I am only waiting for my chance.”
“I see,” said Newman, laughing briefly again. “She is running away and you are running after her. You have run a long distance!”
But M. Nioche stared insistently: “I shall stop her!” he softly repeated.