“I said that I was certain you would consent.” She halted his exasperated gesture. “You think Vigné is nothing but a child, and yet she is as old as I was at our wedding. My mother was no older when Bartram Lowrie married her. I think Vigné is very fortunate, Bailey is as nice as possible; and, as he said, it isn't as if you knew nothing of the Sandbys; they are as dignified as the Lowries.” An expression she had never before seen hardened his countenance into a sarcasm that travestied his customary humor. “You realize, of course, that except for what his father gives him young Sandby is wretchedly poor. He's nice enough but what has that to do with it? And, in particular, how does it touch you, Linda Condon? Do you suppose I can ever forget your answer that time I first asked you to marry me? You wouldn't consider a poor man; you were worth, really, a hundred thousand a year; but, if nothing better came along, you might sacrifice yourself for fifty.” “I remember very well,” she answered; “and, curiously enough, I am not ashamed. I was very sensible then, in a horrible position with extravagant habits. They were me. I couldn't change myself. Without money I should have made you, any man, entirely miserable. Arnaud, I hadn't--I haven't now--the ability to see everything important through the affections, like so many many women. You often told me that; who hasn't? I have always admitted it wasn't pleasant nor praiseworthy. But how, to use your own words, does all that affect Vigné? She isn't cold but very warm-hearted; and, instead of my experience, she has her own so much better feeling.” “I absolutely refuse to allow anything of the sort,” he declared sharply. “I won't even discuss it--for three years. Tell this Sandby infant, if you like, to come back then.” “In three years, or in one year, Vigné may be quite different, yes-less lovable. Happiness, too, is queer, Arnaud; there isn't a great deal of it. Not an overwhelming amount. If it appears for an instant it must be held as tightly as possible. It doesn't come back, you know. Don't turn to your book yet--you can't get rid of us, of Vigné and me, like that; and then it's rude; the first time, I believe, you have ever been impolite to me.” “Forgive me,” he spoke formally. “You seem to think that I am as indifferent as yourself. You might be asking the day of the week to judge from your calm appearance. The emotion of a father, or even of a mother, perhaps, you have never explored. On the whole you are fortunate. And you are always protected by your celebrated honesty.” She said: “I promised Bailey your consent.” “Why bother about that? It isn't necessary for your new romantic mood. An elopement, with you to steady the ladder, would be more appropriate.”