“Don’t look backward, Margaret. Let your mother and me do I that. You must think of your woman’s life to come. Prepare yourself for your future, and be strong.” She tried to smile. “My future is my family.” “The family you are going to found for yourself, yes.” “You have often told me, father, in all our winter walks together, to cherish the traditions of our family.” “But traditions, young logician, are not cherished in a wardrobe, after the manner of our neighbour in the country. Look at old Viscount de la Mortellerie. He shuts himself up with his heraldry and genealogies, and is surprised when his farmers make so bold as to steal his wine. Tradition is not fostered even in an old mansion, or on an old estate, important as it is to guard our patrimony. Tradition is part and parcel of our daily life, our sentiments; gives support to it, makes it lasting and rich in values.” Again she looked at him with her big, enthusiastic eyes, and sighed: “I am too much attached to this home of ours.” “No, no,” protested her father firmly; “you must not say that. There is always something of the unknown in marriage; I know how the prospect of such a change in your life must make you stop and think. But since neither your heart nor your reason finds serious objections, you must be brave and gay in leaving us. You have been happy with us, that’s my reward. But you can be happy, you must be, even away from us. Go find the flowers for me, and send Maurice.” “Yes, father.” She came back in a few moments, carrying quite a sheaf of flowers in her arms. With deft hands she transformed the table intended for her brother, and made it look attractive. “I had some roses after all, the very last. There! In that vase that changes colour in the sun like an opal. They’re very pretty.” Mr. Roquevillard repeated good-naturedly: “Very pretty, indeed.” But it was his daughter that he praised. She laughed and ran off, saying: “Now I’ll go and warn Maurice.” The young man came in promptly after his sister had gone for him. “You have something to say to me?” he asked as he entered, his hat and cane in his hand, as if he had only a little while to stay. He was tall, like his father, but thinner and more polished. More elegant in manner, too, and in appearance, he, nevertheless, did not, like his father, bear the same signs of grandeur in his face and attitude, a natural majesty which Mr. Roquevillard at this particular moment tried to tone down, assuming instead an air of affectionate comradeship. “See how Margaret has arranged your table,” he began. “My table?” “Yes, this one, with the roses. You see the castle from it and there’s a good light. Wouldn’t you like to complete your reading with me, Maurice?”