March, meanwhile, was verging on April, and still he did not speak of leaving.  Undine had learned that he expected to have such decisions left to him, and she hid her impatience lest her showing it should incline him to delay.  But one day, as she sat at tea in the gallery, he came in in his riding-clothes and said:  “I’ve been over to the other side of the mountain.  The February rains have weakened the dam of the Alette, and the vineyards will be in danger if we don’t rebuild at once.”

She suppressed a yawn, thinking, as she did so, how dull he always looked when he talked of agriculture.  It made him seem years older, and she reflected with a shiver that listening to him probably gave her the same look.

He went on, as she handed him his tea:  “I’m sorry it should happen just now.  I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to give up your spring in Paris.”  “Oh, no—­no!” she broke out.  A throng of half-subdued grievances choked in her:  she wanted to burst into sobs like a child.

“I know it’s a disappointment.  But our expenses have been unusually heavy this year.”

“It seems to me they always are.  I don’t see why we should give up Paris because you’ve got to make repairs to a dam.  Isn’t Hubert ever going to pay back that money?”

He looked at her with a mild surprise.  “But surely you understood at the time that it won’t be possible till his wife inherits?”

“Till General Arlington dies, you mean?  He doesn’t look much older than you!”

“You may remember that I showed you Hubert’s note.  He has paid the interest quite regularly.”

“That’s kind of him!” She stood up, flaming with rebellion.  “You can do as you please; but I mean to go to Paris.”

“My mother is not going.  I didn’t intend to open our apartment.”

“I understand.  But I shall open it—­that’s all!”

He had risen too, and she saw his face whiten.  “I prefer that you shouldn’t go without me.”

“Then I shall go and stay at the Nouveau Luxe with my American friends.”

“That never!”

“Why not?”

“I consider it unsuitable.”

“Your considering it so doesn’t prove it.”

They stood facing each other, quivering with an equal anger; then he controlled himself and said in a more conciliatory tone:  “You never seem to see that there are necessities—­”

“Oh, neither do you—­that’s the trouble.  You can’t keep me shut up here all my life, and interfere with everything I want to do, just by saying it’s unsuitable.”

“I’ve never interfered with your spending your money as you please.”

It was her turn to stare, sincerely wondering.  “Mercy, I should hope not, when you’ve always grudged me every penny of yours!”

“You know it’s not because I grudge it.  I would gladly take you to Paris if I had the money.”

“You can always find the money to spend on this place.  Why don’t you sell it if it’s so fearfully expensive?”