“And will it suit you to be dutiful if your uncle accepts this monstrous proposal?”

“Monstrous!” She bridled.  “And why monstrous, if you please?”

“For a score of reasons,” he answered irritably.

“Give me one,” she challenged him.

“He is twice your age.”

“Hardly so much,” said she.

“He is forty-five, at least.”

“But he looks no more than thirty.  He is very handsome — so much you will admit; nor will you deny that he is very wealthy and very powerful; the greatest nobleman in Brittany.  He will make me a great lady.”

“God made you that, Aline.”

“Come, that’s better.  Sometimes you can almost be polite.”  And she moved along the terrace, Andre-Louis pacing beside her.

“I can be more than that to show reason why you should not let this beast befoul the beautiful thing that God has made.”

She frowned, and her lips tightened.  “You are speaking of my future husband,” she reproved him.

His lips tightened too; his pale face grew paler.

“And is it so?  It is settled, then?  Your uncle is to agree?  You are to be sold thus, lovelessly, into bondage to a man you do not know.  I had dreamed of better things for you, Aline.”

“Better than to be Marquise de La Tour d’Azyr?”

He made a gesture of exasperation.  “Are men and women nothing more than names?  Do the souls of them count for nothing?  Is there no joy in life, no happiness, that wealth and pleasure and empty, high-sounding titles are to be its only aims?  I had set you high — so high, Aline — a thing scarce earthly.  There is joy in your heart, intelligence in your mind; and, as I thought, the vision that pierces husks and shams to claim the core of reality for its own.  Yet you will surrender all for a parcel of make-believe.  You will sell your soul and your body to be Marquise de La Tour d’Azyr.”

“You are indelicate,” said she, and though she frowned her eyes laughed.  “And you go headlong to conclusions.  My uncle will not consent to more than to allow my consent to be sought.  We understand each other, my uncle and I. I am not to be bartered like a turnip.”

He stood still to face her, his eyes glowing, a flush creeping into his pale cheeks.

“You have been torturing me to amuse yourself!” he cried.  “Ah, well, I forgive you out of my relief.”

“Again you go too fast, Cousin Andre I have permitted my uncle to consent that M. le Marquis shall make his court to me.  I like the look of the gentleman.  I am flattered by his preference when I consider his eminence.  It is an eminence that I may find it desirable to share.  M. le Marquis does not look as if he were a dullard.  It should be interesting to be wooed by him.  It may be more interesting still to marry him, and I think, when all is considered, that I shall probably — very probably — decide to do so.”