“Oh, I am very wrong, there is no doubt about that,” said Mademoiselle Noémie. “But rather than earn my living as some girls do—toiling with a needle, in little black holes, out of the world—I would throw myself into the Seine.”
“There is no need of that,” Newman answered; “your father told you my offer?”
“Your offer?”
“He wants you to marry, and I told him I would give you a chance to earn your dot.”
“He told me all about it, and you see the account I make of it! Why should you take such an interest in my marriage?”
“My interest was in your father. I hold to my offer; do what you can, and I will buy what you paint.”
She stood for some time, meditating, with her eyes on the ground. At last, looking up, “What sort of a husband can you get for twelve thousand francs?” she asked.
“Your father tells me he knows some very good young men.”
“Grocers and butchers and little maîtres de cafés! I will not marry at all if I can’t marry well.”
“I would advise you not to be too fastidious,” said Newman. “That’s all the advice I can give you.”