“How many of them,” pursued Mrs. Blunt, “have had the good fortune, the leisure to develop their intelligence and their beauty in aesthetic conditions as this charming woman had? Not one in a million. Perhaps not one in an age.” “The heiress of Henry Allègre,” I murmured. “Precisely. But John wouldn’t be marrying the heiress of Henry Allègre.” It was the first time that the frank word, the clear idea, came into the conversation and it made me feel ill with a sort of enraged faintness. “No,” I said. “It would be Mme. de Lastaola then.” “Mme. la Comtesse de Lastaola as soon as she likes after the success of this war.” “And you believe in its success?” “Do you?” “Not for a moment,” I declared, and was surprised to see her look pleased. She was an aristocrat to the tips of her fingers; she really didn’t care for anybody. She had passed through the Empire, she had lived through a siege, had rubbed shoulders with the Commune, had seen everything, no doubt, of what men are capable in the pursuit of their desires or in the extremity of their distress, for love, for money, and even for honour; and in her precarious connection with the very highest spheres she had kept her own honourability unscathed while she had lost all her prejudices. She was above all that. Perhaps “the world” was the only thing that could have the slightest checking influence; but when I ventured to say something about the view it might take of such an alliance she looked at me for a moment with visible surprise.