"Why not leave well alone? Are we not all comfortable as we are? I have made no definite reply to madame Daudenarde--I cannot be bustled. Have you ever thought that when I part from Blanche, I shall be left here by myself?" "Yes. It has even occurred to me that you have thought of it, too." "Naturally. It is not strange that I should tremble at such a prospect. To be solitary is a sad thing." "It is for your own sake, then, not hers, that you delay?" "For the first time I find you lacking!" he broke out. "You do not seem to comprehend the workings of a father's heart." "I have never had one." "Don't split straws! When I lose her I shall be alone. You do not require to be a father to know that." "You could always go to see her." "Flûte!" "And your grandchildren. Respectful grandchildren that clustered at your knee." "I will not anticipate grandchildren--I am not a hundred!" exclaimed Vauquelin angrily. "I repeat that the present conditions are entirely to my taste, and I desire to prolong them." "It is also possible you might re-marry." "At my age? Who would have me? Some ripe and ruddled widow." "Girls, quite young, marry men much older than you." "But not for love. Tell me, what would you put me down at? Without flattery." "I should call you in the prime of life." "The friendly phrase for 'senile.' Depend upon it, people said that to Methuselah. Supposing--a man is never too old to make a fool of himself, you know--supposing, for the sake of argument, I felt a tenderness, a devotion for a girl scarcely older than Blanche: a devotion which I strove to think platonic, even while I sighed under her window, and which revived in me unsought, the emotions--all the sentiment, the throes, the absurdities--of the youth that had gone from me before I knew how divine it was. Would it--could it--is it imaginable that she might not laugh?" "She would not laugh if she were worth it all." "To marry me for love--a girl? To see me romantic without thinking me ridiculous--to melt to my tears, not shrink from the crows'-feet round my eyes? I wonder!" "If you choose wisely, you will not wonder." "In love, who _chooses_? Fate decides. What would you call 'wisely'? She should be--how old?" "Old enough to know her mind. Young enough to attract you." "For the rest?" "She should have means, that you might never fear it had been yours that won her. She should have affection for your child, that she might know no jealousy of yours. She should take interest in your child's future, that, if you were wilful, she might guide you.... To revert to madame Daudenarde, I counsel you to write to-day that you consent." Vauquelin stood gazing at her incredulously. "Georgette! Georgette!" he panted. "Do you know you have given me your own portrait?" "With my love," she told him, smiling. IV THE STATUE