“She ought to get a husband.”
“Ah, monsieur, one doesn’t get a husband for nothing. Her husband must take her as she is; I can’t give her a sou. But the young men don’t see with that eye.”
“Oh,” said Newman, “her talent is in itself a dowry.”
“Ah, sir, it needs first to be converted into specie!” and M. Nioche slapped his purse tenderly before he stowed it away. “The operation doesn’t take place every day.”
“Well, your young men are very shabby,” said Newman; “that’s all I can say. They ought to pay for your daughter, and not ask money themselves.”
“Those are very noble ideas, monsieur; but what will you have? They are not the ideas of this country. We want to know what we are about when we marry.”
“How big a portion does your daughter want?”
M. Nioche stared, as if he wondered what was coming next; but he promptly recovered himself, at a venture, and replied that he knew a very nice young man, employed by an insurance company, who would content himself with fifteen thousand francs.
“Let your daughter paint half a dozen pictures for me, and she shall have her dowry.”
“Half a dozen pictures—her dowry! Monsieur is not speaking inconsiderately?”