“My dear Miss Cronin,” he hastily exclaimed. “If you were ever to think of changing your--your”--he could not find the word; “condition” would not do; “state of life” suggested the Catechism; “profession” was preposterous, besides, he did not mean that--“your sofa”--he had got it--“your sofa in the Avenue Henri Martin for a sofa somewhere else, I know of at least a dozen charming houses in Paris which would gladly, I might say thankfully, open their doors to receive you.” This was really a lie. At the moment Braybrooke did not know of one. But he hastily made up his mind to be “responsible” for Fanny Cronin if anything should occur through his amiable machinations. “Thank you, Mr. Braybrooke. You are kindness itself. So, then, Beryl _is_ going to marry! And she never hinted it to me, although we talked over marriage only yesterday, when I gave her Bourget’s views on it as expressed in his ‘_Physiologie de l’amour moderne_.’ She never said one word. She never--” But at this point Braybrooke felt that an interruption, however rude, was obligatory. “I have no reason whatever to suppose that Miss Van Tuyn is thinking of marriage at this moment,” he said, in an almost shrill voice. “But surely you would not frighten me without a reason,” said Fanny Cronin with mild severity, sitting back again in her chair. “Frighten you, dear Miss Cronin! I would not do that for the world. What have I said to frighten you?” “You talked of my changing my sofa for a sofa somewhere else! If Beryl is not going to marry why should I think of changing?” “But nothing lasts for ever. The whole world is in a state of flux.” “Really, Mr. Braybrooke! I am quite sure _I_ am not in a state of flux!” said Miss Cronin with unusual dignity. “We American women, you must understand, have our principles and know how to preserve them.” “On my honour, I only meant that life inevitably brings with it changes. I am sure you will bear me out in that.” “I don’t know about bearing you out,” said Miss Cronin, looking rather helplessly at Francis Braybrooke’s fairly tall and well-nourished figure. “But why should Beryl want to change? She is very happy as she is.” “I know--I know. But surely such a lovely girl is certain to marry some day. And can we wish it otherwise? Some day a man will come who knows how to appreciate her as she deserves, who understands her nature, who is ready to devote his life to fulfilling her deepest needs.” Miss Cronin suddenly looked intelligent and at the same time like a dragon. Never before had Braybrooke seen such an expression upon her face, such a stiffening of dignity to her ample figure. She sat straight up, looked him full in the face, and observed: “I understand your meaning, Mr. Braybrooke. You wish to marry Beryl. Well, you must forgive me for saying that I think you are much too old for her.”