“Ah, Miss’r Witterly, I am so glad for zat. It please me vair mush that Miss’r Harrington and Miss’r Wentwort’ sall marry zose vair fine ladee.” “Hoity, toity, my dear Monsieur Bagasse, what in the world are you thinking of? Your pupils are not so lucky as that yet. Wentworth might have a chance, for his father’s rich, and in good standing, though I judge from the way things go on lately that Miss Ames cares precious little for him. But Harrington—why he’s as poor as a church mouse, and doesn’t move in good society at all. How Miss Eastman tolerates his visits, _I_ can’t imagine. I suppose it’s her kindness though. Seems to me Harrington must have a great deal of assurance to visit her at all. As for marrying her, why it’s perfectly absurd! She’d as soon marry a man out of the poor-house. Good gracious! look at the old coat the fellow wears! Why the lady belongs to our first society—a su-pairb person—perfectly dis-t-a-nguay.” Monsieur Bagasse grinned broadly, possibly with rage, possibly at the affected drawl with which Witherlee had pronounced the French word _distingué_, and then growing grotesquely serious, burst forth in orotund, hoarse, fluent tones, very politely, but with great earnestness. “Pardon me, Miss’r Witterly,” he said, “but why is zat so odd zat ze vair fine _distingué_ ladee sall lof Miss’r Harrin’ton? Ah, Miss’r Witterly, you make one vair big mistake. You zink ze pretty girl all so fond of ze dollair—ze rank—ze grand posetion, eh? Bah—no! I tell you, no. Ze duch-ess—ze count-ess—ze great vair fine ladee—zey lof so offen ze wit, ze brave heart, ze gallantree, ze goodness wis ze old coat over him. _Ouf!_ Look now. Attend. Was I great vair fine ladee, what sall I do wis myself? I tell you. I see Miss’r Harrington lof me, I make vair sure. Zen I say—here, you brave, good man, so kind, so handsome, so gallant, so like ze superb chevalier of ze old time—look—I lof you! I lof you wis you old coat! I lof you old coat, too, for it covair you so long. Come—I marry you—you take my fine house—my dollair—you take me—all, for evair and evair. _Sacrebleu_, Miss’r Witterly, zat is what I say to Miss’r Harrin’ton was I vair fine ladee.” To this outburst, which was delivered with great vivacity and many shrugs, grimaces, and odd gesticulations, Witherlee listened with opaque eyes and parted lips, and an expression of perfect immobility on his colorless, plump, morbid countenance. At the end, he lifted his expressive eyebrows, slightly curled a contumelious nose, and curved a supercilious lip, with an insolence at once so delicate and so intense, that Monsieur Bagasse, with the most suave smile again on his uncouth visage, felt a strong desire to deal him a thumping French kick under the chin.