“Cecile is in her twenty-third year. If it should fall out so unfortunately that she is not married before she is five or six-and-twenty, it will be extremely hard to marry her at all. When a girl reaches that age, people want to know why she has been so long on hand. We are a good deal talked about in our set. We have come to the end of all the ordinary excuses--‘She is so young.--She is so fond of her father and mother that she doesn’t like to leave them.--She is so happy at home.--She is hard to please, she would like a good name--’ We are beginning to look silly; I feel that distinctly. And besides, Cecile is tired of waiting, poor child, she suffers--” “In what way?” Pons was noodle enough to ask. “Why, because it is humiliating to her to see all her girl friends married before her,” replied the mother, with a duenna’s air. “But, cousin, has anything happened since the last time that I had the pleasure of dining here? Why do you think of men of eight-and-forty?” Pons inquired humbly. “This has happened,” returned the Presidente. “We were to have had an interview with a Court Councillor; his son is thirty years old and very well-to-do, and M. de Marville would have obtained a post in the audit-office for him and paid the money. The young man is a supernumerary there at present. And now they tell us that he has taken it into his head to rush off to Italy in the train of a duchess from the Bal Mabille.... It is nothing but a refusal in disguise. The fact is, the young man’s mother is dead; he has an income of thirty thousand francs, and more to come at his father’s death, and they don’t care about the match for him. You have just come in in the middle of all this, dear cousin, so you must excuse our bad temper.” While Pons was casting about for the complimentary answer which invariably occurred to him too late when he was afraid of his host, Madeleine came in, handed a folded note to the Presidente, and waited for an answer. The note ran as follows: “DEAR MAMMA,--If we pretend that this note comes to you from papa at the Palais, and that he wants us both to dine with his friend because proposals have been renewed--then the cousin will go, and we can carry out our plan of going to the Popinots.” “Who brought the master’s note?” the Presidente asked quickly. “A lad from the Salle du Palais,” the withered waiting woman unblushingly answered, and her mistress knew at once that Madeleine had woven the plot with Cecile, now at the end of her patience. “Tell him that we will both be there at half-past five.” Madeleine had no sooner left the room than the Presidente turned to Cousin Pons with that insincere friendliness which is about as grateful to a sensitive soul as a mixture of milk and vinegar to the palate of an epicure.