“And she refuses?”

“Positively.”

“Refuses?”

“With thanks.”

I stared at him for a moment in silence.  Then I said:  “Go and get her and bring her here.  I’ll find out what she wants,” and sat down on a bench to wait.  Harry departed for the hotel without a word.

In a few minutes he returned with Le Mire.  I rose and proffered her a seat on the bench, which she accepted with a smile, and Harry sat down at her side.  I stood in front of them.

“Le Mire,” said I, and I believe I frowned, “my brother tells me that you have been offered the name of Lamar in marriage.”

“I have thanked him for it,” said she with a smile.

“And declined it.”

“And—­declined it,” she agreed.

“Well,” said I, “I am not a man of half measures, as you will soon see, Le Mire.  Besides, I appreciate your power.  On the day,” I continued with slow precision—­“on the day that you give me a contract to adhere to that refusal you may have my check for one million dollars.”

She surprised me; I admit it.  I had expected a burst of anger, with a touch of assumed hauteur; the surrender to follow, for I had made the stake high.  But as I stood looking down at her, waiting for the flash of her eye, I was greeted by a burst of laughter—­the frank laughter of genuine mirth.  Then she spoke: 

“Oh, you Americans!  You are so funny!  A million dollars!  It is impossible that I should be angry after such a compliment.  Besides, you are so funny!  Do you not know Le Mire?  Am I not a princess if I desire it—­tomorrow—­today?  Bah!  There is the world—­is it not mine?  Mrs. Lamar?  Ugh!  Pardon me, my friend, but it is an ugly name.

“You know my ancestors?  De L’Enclos, Montalais, Maintenon, La Marana!  They were happy—­in their way—­and they were great.  I must do nothing unworthy of them.  Set your mind at rest, Mr. Lamar; but, really, you should have known better—­you who have seen the world and Le Mire in Paris!  And now our amusement is perhaps ended?  Now we must return to that awful New York?  Voila!”

Indeed I had not understood her.  And how could I?  There is only one such woman in a generation; sometimes none, for nature is sparing of her favorites.  By pure luck she sat before me, this twentieth-century Marana, and I acknowledged her presence with a deep bow of apology and admiration.

“If you will forgive me, madame,” I said, “I will—­not attempt to make reparation, for my words were not meant for you.  Consider them unspoken.  As for our amusement, why need it end?  Surely, we can forget?  I see plainly I am not a St. Evremond, but neither am I a fool.  My brother pleases you—­well, there he is.  As for myself, I shall either stay to take care of you two children, or I shall return to New York, as you desire.”

Le Mire looked at me uncertainly for a moment, then turned to Harry and with a fluttering gesture took his hand in her own and patted it gaily.  Then she laughed the happy laugh of a child as she said: