For a moment she put aside her visible annoyance to remove his doubts. “I am quite serious, monsieur. There came a formal letter to my uncle this morning from M. de La Tour d’Azyr, announcing the visit and its object. I will not say that it did not surprise us a little...” “Oh, I see,” cried Andre-Louis, in relief. “I understand. For a moment I had almost feared...” He broke off, looked at her, and shrugged. “Why do you stop? You had almost feared that Versailles had been wasted upon me. That I should permit the courtship of me to be conducted like that of any village wench. It was stupid of you. I am being sought in proper form, at my uncle’s hands.” “Is his consent, then, all that matters, according to Versailles?” “What else?” “There is your own.” She laughed. “I am a dutiful niece... when it suits me.” “And will it suit you to be dutiful if your uncle accepts this monstrous proposal?” “Monstrous!” She bridled. “And why monstrous, if you please?” “For a score of reasons,” he answered irritably. “Give me one,” she challenged him. “He is twice your age.” “Hardly so much,” said she. “He is forty-five, at least.” “But he looks no more than thirty. He is very handsome--so much you will admit; nor will you deny that he is very wealthy and very powerful; the greatest nobleman in Brittany. He will make me a great lady.” “God made you that, Aline.” “Come, that’s better. Sometimes you can almost be polite.” And she moved along the terrace, Andre-Louis pacing beside her. “I can be more than that to show reason why you should not let this beast befoul the beautiful thing that God has made.” She frowned, and her lips tightened. “You are speaking of my future husband,” she reproved him. His lips tightened too; his pale face grew paler. “And is it so? It is settled, then? Your uncle is to agree? You are to be sold thus, lovelessly, into bondage to a man you do not know. I had dreamed of better things for you, Aline.” “Better than to be Marquise de La Tour d’Azyr?” He made a gesture of exasperation. “Are men and women nothing more than names? Do the souls of them count for nothing? Is there no joy in life, no happiness, that wealth and pleasure and empty, high-sounding titles are to be its only aims? I had set you high--so high, Aline--a thing scarce earthly. There is joy in your heart, intelligence in your mind; and, as I thought, the vision that pierces husks and shams to claim the core of reality for its own. Yet you will surrender all for a parcel of make-believe. You will sell your soul and your body to be Marquise de La Tour d’Azyr.” “You are indelicate,” said she, and though she frowned her eyes laughed. “And you go headlong to conclusions. My uncle will not consent to more than to allow my consent to be sought. We understand each other, my uncle and I. I am not to be bartered like a turnip.” He stood still to face her, his eyes glowing, a flush creeping into his pale cheeks.