"That is exactly what I was coming at," said Sabine, with amusing _naïveté_. "It is a father's duty to protect his child, you say?" "Certainly." "But, father, suppose that you should meet with an accident during one of your journeys; suppose, for instance, that you should lose your sight, would I be foolish or idiotic if I did everything in my power to repay you for all you have done for me, and to act, in my turn, the part of guide, support, and protector? Our rôles would be reversed, as you say. Still, what daughter would not be proud and happy to do for her father what I would do for you? Ah, well, why should not a wife manifest the same devotion toward her husband that a daughter manifests toward her father? I am sure you will not be able to refute that argument, my dear father." "But your comparison, though extremely touching, is by no means just. In consequence of some misfortune, or some deplorable accident, a girl might find herself obliged to become the support and protector of her father. In such a case, it is very grand and noble in her to devote her life and energies to him; but she has not deliberately chosen her father, so she is performing a sacred duty, while the woman who is free to choose would, I repeat,--don't glare at me so,--be a fool, yes, an idiot, to select for a husband--" "An unfortunate man who needs to be surrounded with the tenderest solicitude," cried Sabine, interrupting her father. "So you really believe that a woman would be committing an act of folly if she made such a choice. Say that again, father, if you want me to believe it,--you, who have so generously devoted your life to your child, who have been so lenient to her many weaknesses, who have made every sacrifice for her,--tell me that it would be arrant folly to devote one's life to an unfortunate creature to whom Fate has been most unkind; tell me that it would be arrant folly to cling to him because an infirmity kept everybody else aloof from him; tell me this, father, and I will believe you." "No, my generous, noble-hearted child, I do not say that. I should be lying if I did," exclaimed Cloarek, quite carried away by Sabine's generous enthusiasm; "no, I cannot doubt the divine happiness that one finds in devoting oneself to a person one loves; no, I cannot doubt the attraction that courage and resignation under suffering exert over all superior natures." "So you see that my dream is not as extraordinary as you thought, after all," replied the girl, smiling. "You are a doughty antagonist, and I will admit that I am beaten, or rather convinced, if you can answer one more objection as successfully." "And what is that?"