“I don’t know.”

“It’s because he has married a charming woman, and this charming woman is a skater of the first rank.  She had a tremendous success on the ice at the Bois de Boulogne.  In the society columns of all the papers there was mention of the exquisite, delightful, and ideal Mme. Robineau.  She was in the swim at one stroke.  And Robineau, he too was in the swim.  He was a member of the little club six weeks later!  Papa, he doesn’t understand the importance of these things; one can’t reason with him about it; it’s all Greek to him.  However, as he had absolutely cut off my supplies, I had to submit, and consent to an interview with Number Two.”

“And what was Number Two like?”

“Ah, my dear fellow, what was she like!  She was the daughter of a rich merchant of Antwerp.  A Belgian article!  First a provincial, and then a foreigner!  Papa doesn’t like Parisians.  Mamma was from Chatellerault, and she was indeed a saint.  Number Two happened to be in Paris; so last night, at the Opera Comique, they showed me a Fleming, who was very blond, very insipid, very masculine—­a Rubens, a true Rubens; a giantess, a colossal woman, a head taller than I, which is to say that materially one could not take her in a lower stage-box, and those are the only boxes I like.  On leaving the theatre I told papa that I wouldn’t have Number Two any more than Number One, and that I had had enough, and that I wouldn’t see Number Three.  The discussion was heated.  Papa went off banging doors and repeating, ‘No more money!’ I saw that it was serious.  I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep—­I thought; but I could think of nothing to save me from the fat hands of the Antwerp girl.  Suddenly, towards three in the morning, I had an inspiration—­I had an idea that I can call, if you’ll permit it, a stroke of genius.”

“I’ll permit it.”

“Yes, genius.  I knew that you left to-day for Marseilles, and this morning I departed, English fashion, without explanation, and in a little while, at the first stop, at Laroche—­I have looked at the time-table, I have thought of everything—­I shall send the following despatch to my father,” and Raoul triumphantly pulled a paper out of his pocket.  “It’s all ready.  Listen.  ’M.  Chamblard, 8 Rue Rougemont, Paris, Laroche station.  I left on the express for Marseilles with Maurice.  I am going to make a voyage around the world.  I sha’n’t be more than six months.  I have engaged by telegraph a state-room on the Traonaddy which leaves to-morrow for Singapore.  Anything rather than a Flemish alliance!  Farewell.  With regrets for leaving you, your affectionate son, Raoul Chamblard.’  My telegram’s all right, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t bad, but do you seriously mean—­”