I know, for I was like that myself. Place them in a garden, in the
springtime. What will they talk of--politics? Ah--bah! Let them have
long evenings together while their elders play chess or a hand at
bezique. What game will they play? A much older game than chess or
bezique, I fancy."

"But the circumstances were so exceptional," protested the Marquis, who
had a pleased air, as if his anger were not without an antidote.

"Circumstances may be exceptional, my friend, but Love is a Rule. You
allow him to stay six weeks in the chateau, seeing Juliette daily, and
then you are surprised that one fine morning Monsieur de Bourbon comes
to you and tells you brusquely, as you report it, that he wants to marry
your daughter."

"Yes," admitted the Marquis. "He was what you may describe as brusque.
It is the English way, perhaps, of treating such matters. Now, for
myself I should have been warmer, I think. I should have allowed myself
a little play, as it were. One says a few pretty things--is it not so?
One suggests that the lady is an angel and oneself entirely unworthy
of a happiness which is only to be compared with the happiness that
is promised to us in the hereafter. It is an occasion upon which to be
eloquent."

"Not for the English," corrected Madame de Chantonnay, holding up a
hand to emphasise her opinion. "And you must remember, that although
our friend is French, he has been brought up in that cold country--by
a minister of their frozen religion, I understand. I, who speak to you,
know what they are, for once I had an Englishman in love with me. It was
in Paris, when Louis XVIII. was King. And did this Englishman tell me
that he was heart-broken, I ask you? Never! On the contrary, he appeared
to be of an indifference only to be compared with the indifference of a
tree. He seemed to avoid me rather than seek my society. Once, he made
believe to forget that he had been presented to me. A ruse--a mere ruse
to conceal his passion. But I knew, I knew always."

"And what was the poor man's fate? What was his name, Comtesse?"

"I forget, my friend. For the moment I have forgotten it. But tell me
more about Monsieur de Bourbon and Juliette. He is passionately in love
with her, of course; he is so miserable."

The Marquis reflected for a few moments.

"Well," he said, at last, "he may be so; he may be so, Comtesse."

"And you--what did you say?"

The Marquis looked carefully round before replying. Then he leant
fo