“I fear not.  There’s something more.  Mrs. D’Alloi won’t pardon that incident—­nor do I blame her.  I can’t force my presence here if she does not give her consent.  It would be too cruel, even if I could hope to succeed in spite of her.  I want to see her this morning.  You can tell better than I whether you had best speak to her first, or whether I shall tell her.”

“H’m.  That is a corker, isn’t it?  Don’t you think you had better let things drift?”

“No.  I’m not going to try and win a girl’s love behind the mother’s back.  Remember, Watts, the mother is the only one to whom a girl can go at such a time.  We mustn’t try to take advantage of either.”

“Well, I’ll speak to her, and do my best.  Then I’ll send her to you.  Help yourself to the tobacco if you get tired of waiting tout seul.”

Watts went upstairs and knocked at a door.  “Yes,” said a voice.  Watts put his head in.  “Is my Rosebud so busy that she can’t spare her lover a few moments?”

“Watts, you know I live for you.”

Watts dropped down on the lounge.  “Come here, then, like a loving little wife, and let me say my little say.”

No woman nearing forty can resist a little tenderness in her husband, and Mrs. D’Alloi snuggled up to Watts in the pleasantest frame of mind.  Watts leaned over and kissed her cheek.  Then Mrs. D’Alloi snuggled some more.

“Now, I want to talk with you seriously, dear,” he said.  “Who do you think is downstairs?”

“Who?”

“Dear old Peter.  And what do you think he’s come for!”

“What?”

“Dot.”

“For what?”

“He wants our consent, dear, to pay his addresses to Leonore.”

“Oh, Watts!” Mrs. D’Alloi ceased to snuggle, and turned a horrified face to her husband.

“I’ve thought she attracted him, but he’s such an impassive, cool old chap, that I wasn’t sure.”

“That’s what I’ve been so afraid of.  I’ve worried so over it.”

“You dear, foolish little woman.  What was there to worry over?”

“Watts!  You won’t give your consent?”

“Of course we will.  Why, what more do you want?  Money, reputation, brains, health.” (That was the order in which Peter’s advantages ranged themselves in Watts’s mind).  “I don’t see what more you can ask, short of a title, and titles not only never have all those qualities combined, but they are really getting decidedly nouveau richey and not respectable enough for a Huguenot family, who’ve lived two hundred and fifty years in New York.  What a greedy mamma she is for her little girl.”

“Oh, Watts!  But think!”

“It’s hard work, dear, with your eyes to look at.  But I will, if you’ll tell me what to think about.”

“My husband!  You cannot have forgotten?  Oh, no!  It is too horrible for you to have forgotten that day.”

“You heavenly little Puritan!  So you are going to refuse Peter as a son-in-law, because he—­ah—­he’s not a Catholic monk.  Why, Rosebud, if you are going to apply that rule to all Dot’s lovers, you had better post a sign:  ‘Wanted, a husband.  P.S.  No man need apply.’”