“Indeed,” she said, her voice not wholly steady, but her eyes instinct with mischief, “it seems to me that you are fairly eloquent, M. de Tavernay, despite your lack of practise. I tremble to think what you will be in a year’s time.” “I shall be just what I am now,” I said doggedly, wounded at her tone. “You have sounded the height and depth of my eloquence.” “And am I to believe all this?” “If you do not, mademoiselle, it is not because it is not true.” “But your betrothed,” she persisted, “has she no attractions?” “I have not seen her since she was a child of eight,” I answered coldly. “I remember only that she had white hair and a red nose.” She burst into a peal of laughter which shook her from head to foot, and which I thought exceedingly ill-timed. “Many children have,” she said, when she could speak articulately. “I should not allow such little things as those to prejudice me against her. No doubt her hair is darker now, and that redness of the nose may have been only temporary. Perhaps her memory of you is no more complimentary.” “That is very likely,” I admitted. “Think, then,” she cried, “how agreeably she will be surprised when she sees you! Unless indeed she has already lost her heart to some handsome fellow of Poitiers.” “I trust not,” I said. “I trust not.” “And why?” she queried sharply. “I would not wish her to be unhappy also.” She sat a moment silent at that. “You mean that even if she has,” she asked at last, “you will hold her to the betrothal?” “Oh, no!” I answered, instantly; “she would be free--that is, if she chose to be free.” “If she chose to be?” “Her father would hold her to her oath,” said I. “And you believe he would have a right to do that?” she demanded, wheeling upon me fiercely. “You believe that he would have a right to compel her obedience, to force her into this marriage, to make her miserable?” “Yes,” I answered, after a moment’s thought, “I am sure he would. The law is very clear.” “Oh, the law!” she cried, impatiently. “I was not thinking of the law--I care nothing for the law--a poor, stumbling device of stupid men, whose meaning even they do not understand! Would he have the _right_?” “Yes,” I repeated, “I believe he would. He had passed his word.” “And his word is of more importance than his daughter’s happiness?” she demanded, her eyes blazing. “Undoubtedly,” I answered, feeling myself on firm ground at last. “His honor is of more importance to him than anything else on earth.” “Honor!” she echoed, contemptuously. “An empty word men frighten women with!” “No!” I cried. “A rock to cling to in time of storm, even as I am clinging to it now.” She sat for a moment looking at me darkly. “You men are all alike,” she said at last. “Lords of creation, before whom we women must bow in all humility.” “Even as you are doing at this moment,” I retorted. She laughed at that, and the cloud vanished from her face.