MME. DE CÉRAN. A rich, intellectual, highly-educated and well-born orphan, niece of the Lord-Chancellor, who recommended her: she would be a splendid wife for Roger, and—— DUCHESS. That English iceberg? Brrrr! Just to kiss her would freeze the nose off his face! But you’re on a false scent. In the first place Bellac has his eye on her—yes, the Professor! He’s asked me too many questions about her to leave any doubt in my mind. And what is more, she seems fond of _him_. MME. DE CÉRAN. Lucy? DUCHESS. Yes, Lucy,—like all the rest of you! You’re all mad over him. I know more about this than you do.—No, no! Lucy is not the woman for your son! MME. DE CÉRAN. I know your schemes: Suzanne is the woman! DUCHESS. I don’t deny it. I have brought Suzanne here for that very purpose. I arranged that he should be her tutor and her master, so to speak, in order that he might marry her,—and marry her he shall! MME. DE CÉRAN. You have counted without me, Duchess; I shall never consent. DUCHESS. And why not? A girl who—— MME. DE CÉRAN. Is of questionable origin, questionable attraction, without education and manners. DUCHESS. (_Bursting into laughter_) My living image at her age! MME. DE CÉRAN. Without fortune! Without family! DUCHESS. Without family? The daughter of my poor Georges? My handsome, good, kind Georges!—And she’s your cousin after all! MME. DE CÉRAN. A natural child! DUCHESS. Natural? Aren’t all children natural? You amuse me! She’s been legally recognized! And good heavens, when the devil’s put his finger in the pie why shouldn’t the rest of us? Me, too, eh? MME. DE CÉRAN. The devil has put his finger in the pie, but not the way you think. _You_ are on the false scent. DUCHESS. Oh, the Professor! Yes, Bellac. You told me that. You think no woman can follow his lectures without falling in love with him? MME. DE CÉRAN. But Suzanne hasn’t missed a single lecture, Aunt, and she takes notes and corrects them and copies them—I tell you Suzanne is in earnest. And while he is speaking she never takes her eyes off him; she drinks in every word. And you think that is all for the sake of science! Nonsense, it isn’t the science she loves, it’s the scientist. That is as plain as day. You have only to watch her when she’s with Lucy. She is dreadfully jealous. And this recently acquired coquetry in a girl of her disposition—! She sighs, sulks, blushes, turns pale, laughs, cries—— DUCHESS. April showers! She’s just coming into bloom. She’s bored, poor child! MME. DE CÉRAN. Here?