But he shook his head, still growling inarticulately, and began to draw enormous clouds of smoke from the long black cigar.  After a time he took the cigar once more from his lips and looked thoughtfully at his granddaughter, where she sat on the edge of the vast bed, upright and beautiful, perfect in the most meticulous detail.  Most women when they return from a long evening out look more or less the worse for it—­deadened eyes, pale cheeks, loosened coiffure tell their inevitable tale.  Miss Benham looked as if she had just come from the hands of a very excellent maid.  She looked as freshly soignee as she might have looked at eight that evening instead of at one.  Not a wave of her perfectly undulated hair was loosened or displaced, not a fold of the lace at her breast had departed from its perfect arrangement.

“It is odd,” said old David Stewart, “your taking a fancy to young Ste. Marie.  Of course, it’s natural, too, in a way, because you are complete opposites, I should think—­that is, if this lad is like the rest of his race.  What I mean is that merely attractive young men don’t, as a rule, attract you.”

“Well, no,” she admitted, “they don’t usually.  Men with brains attract me most, I think—­men who are making civilization, men who are ruling the world, or at least doing important things for it.  That’s your fault, you know.  You taught me that.”

The old gentleman laughed.

“Possibly,” said he.  “Possibly.  Anyhow, that is the sort of men you like, and they like you.  You’re by no means a fool, Helen; in fact, you’re a woman with brains.  You could wield great influence married to the proper sort of man.”

“But not to M. Ste. Marie,” she suggested, smiling across at him.

“Well, no,” he said.  “No, not to Ste. Marie.  It would be a mistake to marry Ste. Marie—­if he is what the rest of his house have been.  The Ste. Maries live a life compounded of romance and imagination and emotion.  You’re not emotional.”

“No,” said Miss Benham, slowly and thoughtfully.  It was as if the idea were new to her.  “No, I’m not, I suppose.  No.  Certainly not.”

“As a matter of fact,” said old David, “you’re by nature rather cold.  I’m not sure it isn’t a good thing.  Emotional people, I observe, are usually in hot water of some sort.  When you marry you’re very likely to choose with a great deal of care and some wisdom.  And you’re also likely to have what is called a career.  I repeat that you could wield great influence in the proper environment.”

The girl frowned across at her grandfather reflectively.

“Do you mean by that,” she asked, after a little silence—­“do you mean that you think I am likely to be moved by sheer ambition and nothing else in arranging my life?  I’ve never thought of myself as a very ambitious person.”

“Let us substitute for ambition common-sense,” said old David.  “I think you have a great deal of common-sense for a woman—­and so young a woman.  How old are you by-the-way?  Twenty-two?  Yes, to be sure.  I think you have great common-sense and appreciation of values.  And I think you’re singularly free of the emotionalism that so often plays hob with them all.  People with common-sense fall in love in the right places.”