M. Binet made a wide gesture, and swung to his daughter. “You hear him, the mealy-mouthed prude! Perhaps you’ll believe at last that marriage with him would be the ruin of you. He would always be there the inconvenient husband--to mar your every chance, my girl.” She tossed her lovely head in agreement with her father. “I begin to find him tiresome with his silly jealousies,” she confessed. “As a husband I am afraid he would be impossible.” Andre-Louis felt a constriction of the heart. But--always the actor--he showed nothing of it. He laughed a little, not very pleasantly, and rose. “I bow to your choice, mademoiselle. I pray that you may not regret it.” “Regret it?” cried M. Binet. He was laughing, relieved to see his daughter at last rid of this suitor of whom he had never approved, if we except those few hours when he really believed him to be an eccentric of distinction. “And what shall she regret? That she accepted the protection of a nobleman so powerful and wealthy that as a mere trinket he gives her a jewel worth as much as an actress earns in a year at the Comedie Francaise?” He got up, and advanced towards Andre-Louis. His mood became conciliatory. “Come, come, my friend, no rancour now. What the devil! You wouldn’t stand in the girl’s way? You can’t really blame her for making this choice? Have you thought what it means to her? Have you thought that under the protection of such a gentleman there are no heights which she may not reach? Don’t you see the wonderful luck of it? Surely, if you’re fond of her, particularly being of a jealous temperament, you wouldn’t wish it otherwise?” Andre-Louis looked at him in silence for a long moment. Then he laughed again. “Oh, you are fantastic,” he said. “You are not real.” He turned on his heel and strode to the door. The action, and more the contempt of his look, laugh, and words stung M. Binet to passion, drove out the conciliatoriness of his mood. “Fantastic, are we?” he cried, turning to follow the departing Scaramouche with his little eyes that now were inexpressibly evil. “Fantastic that we should prefer the powerful protection of this great nobleman to marriage with a beggarly, nameless bastard. Oh, we are fantastic!” Andre-Louis turned, his hand upon the door-handle. “No,” he said, “I was mistaken. You are not fantastic. You are just vile--both of you.” And he went out. CHAPTER X. CONTRITION Mlle. de Kercadiou walked with her aunt in the bright morning sunshine of a Sunday in March on the broad terrace of the Chateau de Sautron. For one of her natural sweetness of disposition she had been oddly irritable of late, manifesting signs of a cynical worldliness, which convinced Mme. de Sautron more than ever that her brother Quintin had scandalously conducted the child’s education. She appeared to be instructed in all the things of which a girl is better ignorant, and ignorant of all the things that a girl should know. That at least was the point of view of Mme. de Sautron.