“Oh, I don’t know,” said Westover.  “I think he has a good head.  He can do what he likes within certain limits, and the limits are not all on the side I used to fancy.  He baffles me.  But of late I fancy you’ve seen rather more of him than I have.”

“I have urged him to go more to you.  But,” said Mrs. Vostrand, with a burst of frankness, “he thinks you don’t like him.”

“He’s wrong,” said Westover.  “But I might dislike him very much.”

“I see what you mean,” said Mrs. Vostrand, “and I’m glad you’ve been so frank with me.  I’ve been so interested in Mr. Durgin, so interested!  Isn’t he very young?”

The question seemed a bit of indirection to Westover.  But he answered directly enough.  “He’s rather old for a Sophomore, I believe.  He’s twenty-two.”

“And Genevieve is twenty.  Mr. Westover, may I trust you with something?”

“With everything, I hope, Mrs. Vostrand.”

“It’s about Genevieve.  Her father is so opposed to her making a foreign marriage.  It seems to be his one great dread.  And, of course, she’s very much exposed to it, living abroad so much with me, and I feel doubly bound on that account to respect her father’s opinions, or even prejudices.  Before we left Florence—­in fact, last winter—­there was a most delightful young officer wished to marry her.  I don’t know that she cared anything for him, though he was everything that I could have wished:  handsome, brilliant, accomplished, good family; everything but rich, and that was what Mr. Vostrand objected to; or, rather, he objected to putting up, as he called it, the sum that Captain Grassi would have had to deposit with the government before he was allowed to marry.  You know how it is with the poor fellows in the army, there; I don’t understand the process exactly, but the sum is something like sixty thousand francs, I believe; and poor Gigi hadn’t it:  I always called him Gigi, but his name is Count Luigi de’ Popolani Grassi; and he is descended from one of the old republican families of Florence.  He is so nice!  Mr. Vostrand was opposed to him from the beginning, and as soon as he heard of the sixty thousand francs, he utterly refused.  He called it buying a son-in-law, but I don’t see why he need have looked at it in that light.  However, it was broken off, and we left Florence—­more for poor Gigi’s sake than for Genevieve’s, I must say.  He was quite heart-broken; I pitied him.”

Her voice had a tender fall in the closing words, and Westover could fancy how sweet she would make her compassion to the young man.  She began several sentences aimlessly, and he suggested, to supply the broken thread of her discourse rather than to offer consolation, while her eyes seemed to wander with her mind, and ranged the avenue up and down:  “Those foreign marriages are not always successful.”

“No, they are not,” she assented.  “But don’t you think they’re better with Italians than with Germans, for instance.”