Patterns waited while the ironworker said that to the tender chagrin of all the coterie Chester was refused—­a man of such fineness, such promise, mind, charm, and integrity, and so fitted for her in years, temperament, and tastes, that no girl, however perfect, could hope to be courted by more than one such in a lifetime.

In brief Creole prose he struck the highest key of Shakespeare’s sonnets:  “Was she not doing a grievous wrong to herself and Chester, to the whole coterie that so adored her, especially to the De l’Isles and himself, and even to society at large?  Her reasons,” he said, shifting to English, “I can guess at them, but guessing at ’alf-a-dozen convinze’ me of none!”

“Have you guess’ at differenze of rilligious faith?” the priest inquired.

“Yes, but—­nothing doing; I ’ave to guess no.”

“Tha’z a great matter to a good Catholic.”

“Ah, father!  Or-din-arily, yes.  Bud this time no.  Any’ow, this time tha’z not for us Catholic’ to be diztress’ ab-out. . . .  Ah, yes, chil’ren.  But, you know?  If daughter’, they’ll be of the faith and conduc’ of the mother; if son’, faith of the mother, conduc’ of the father; and I think with that even you, pries’ of God, be satizfie’, eh?

“My dear frien’, you know what I billieve?  Me, I billieve in heaven they are waiting impatiently for that marriage.”

The priest may have been professionally delinquent, but he chose to leave the argument unrefuted.  He smilingly looked at his watch.  “Well,” he said, “I choose this design.  Make it so.  Good evening.”  He turned away.  Beloiseau called after him, but the man of God kept straight on.

The ironworker loitered back to where the chosen pattern lay, and stood over it still thinking of Chester.  Presently a soft voice sounded so close by that he turned abruptly.  At his side was an extremely winsome stranger.  His artistic eye instantly remarked not only her well-preserved beauty, but its gentle dignity, rare refinement, and untypical quality.  Whether it was Creole or Americain, Southern, Northern, or Western, nothing betrayed; on the surface at least, the provincial, as far as the ironworker could see, was wholly bred out of her.  He noted also the unimpaired excellence of her erect and girlish slightness and, under her pretty hat and early whitened hair, the carven fineness of her features.  Her whole attire pleasantly befitted her years, which might have been anything short of fifty; and yet, if Scipion was right, she might have dressed for thirty.

“Are you Mr. Beloiseau?” she inquired.

“I am,” he said.

“Mr. Beloiseau, I’m the mother of Geoffry Chester.  You know him, I believe?”

“Oh, is that possible?  He is my esteem’ frien’, madame.  Will you”—­he began to dust a lone chair.

“No, thank you; I came to find Geoffry’s quarters.  I left the hotel with my memorandum, but must have dropped it.  I remember only Bienville Street.”