“Everybody is so in Italy. Poetry is only a matter of language with them.” Suddenly, with that naturalness which was her greatest charm and which led her into the most unexpected outbursts, she began to cry. And, as he stood bewildered and not knowing how to show his concern, she asked him: “Why don’t _you_ marry me?” Confused as he was, he answered, nevertheless, quickly enough. “I could not take you with me to Africa.” “You could go in for business. You would make a lot of money. M. Landeau would help you.” At the thought of the curious rôle that she was giving M. Landeau she laughed heartily which completely won the young man. As they threaded the avenue of plane-trees she took advantage of the deep shadow of a tree to offer her cheek. “Kiss me to console me!” Jean was still thrilling at the contact with the fresh young cheek when Isabelle renewed her attack. “What a pity!” she said. “Why aren’t you a millionaire?” “That is what I should like to know,” sighed Jean. Madame Dulaurens pointed to the vanishing figure of the girl after Jean and Isabelle had outdistanced the first group whom she was leading to the drawing-room. “Instead of blaming her, I quite approve of what she has done. This marriage shows her great strength of character. After all, she has no fortune.” The chorus of rich friends quite agreed with this remark. Encouraged, she continued, after throwing a careful glance behind her: “Look at Paule Guibert, on the other hand. She wouldn’t marry M. Landeau. Not a penny, and such a deadly creature! How can you expect her ever to marry?” “Still,” said one lady, “her father sacrificed all his property to save his brother. It was splendid.” “To save the name of Guibert? It would have been better if he had saved his money. Who remembers anything about it now?” “Forgetfulness is quicker than death,” remarked a sententious male guest. Madame Dulaurens went on: “Poor Paule was much admired by Lieutenant Sinard at a costume ball I gave a few years ago--before the doctor’s death. He was very serious about it. But he came in for three hundred thousand francs. Of course, after that, he had quite different ideas.” “Oh, well, of course,” chimed in the chorus of the faithful, “he could never again think of her.” A few steps behind, Madame Orlandi made her way slowly under her heavy burden of flesh. The critical eye of Mademoiselle de Songeon was upon her as she panted out her confused account of the benefits of the new situation. “My daughter had great difficulty in making up her mind. But M. Landeau is a man of principles--and, what is not to be despised, of large fortune.” The “principles” were introduced to placate the lady president, who asked, “Has he given up work?” “Oh, no, he still works. He is a director. He commands thousands of workmen--a real general!” “But,” the old maid muttered dryly, “in my time, no one in our set would have married a business man.”