“Mam’selle has spoken the truth.  I would be sorry to be like other men—­particularly your Pasmore”—­he grinned impishly as he saw the indignation on Dorothy’s face—­“but that is not the thing.  Pasmore is all right—­in his own way.  He is even, what you might call, goodfellow.  But why is it you should fret for him?  He is all right.  And even if anything should happen to him, it is not Pepin that has the hard heart—­he might even console Mam’selle.  He will not exactly promise that, but he may come to it.  Perhaps Mam’selle will remember in the house when the good mother told how you would like to marry Pepin, and he said you would not do.  Well, Pepin has considered well since then, and he has thought that if you tried to suit him, you might”

“It is too great an honour, Pepin.  If you expect any one in this world to be as good and kind to you as your mother, you will find you have made a great mistake.  Believe me, Pepin Quesnelle.  I am a woman, and I know.”

“Bien!  Oui, the mother she is good, ver’ good, and I know there is right in what you say.  So!  Still, I think you have improved since we first met, and the mother likes you, so you need not think too much of that you are not good enough, and if you should think better of it—­all may yet be well.”

But Dorothy assured him that, seeing she had given her word to Pasmore, and, moreover, seeing she loved him, it would be a mistake to change her mind upon the subject.

This, however, was not exactly clear to Pepin, who could not understand how any woman could be foolish enough to stand in her own light when he, the great Pepin, who had been so long the catch of the Saskatchewan, had graciously signified his intention to accept her homage.  Perhaps she was one of those coy creatures who must have something more than mere conventionalism put into an offer of marriage, so under the circumstances it might be as well for him to go through with the matter to the bitter end.

“Mam’selle,” he said, “the honour Pepin does you is stupendous; he is prepared to accept you—­to make the great sacrifice.  He lays his heart at your feet—­he means you have laid your heart at his feet, and he stoops to pick—­”

“You’d better do nothing of the kind, Pepin Quesnelle.  It’s all a mistake!—­You utterly misunderstand—­”

But Dorothy could say no more, for, despite her alarm, the situation was too ludicrous for words.  What further complications might have arisen, it is difficult to say, had not just then the astute Antoine come to the conclusion that his master was developing some peculiar form of madness and wanted a little brotherly attention.  He therefore came noiselessly behind him and with a show of absent-mindedness poked his snout between his legs.