“That’s it. The French play you said was wrote from a book by some other parly-voo chap. You told me the story of it, I remember. It didn’t make much of a hit with me at the time, an’ I couldn’t quite see where the cry come in. But I got to thinkin’ of it when you spoke just now. Remember the chap in there who told the girl she was his Youth an’ that if it wasn’t for her he’d be nothin’ but just a plain grown man? ’Twas her that kep’ him feelin’ like a boy. An’ then when she died—let’s see—what was it he hollered? Something ’bout—”
“‘O, ma Jeunesse, c’est vous qu’on enterre,’” quoted Desirée.
“Maybe so,” assented Caleb, doubtfully. “It sounds like a Chinee laundry ticket to me. That was the part you were cryin’ over, too. What is it in English?”
“‘Oh my Youth, it is you they are burying!’” translated the girl.
“That’s the answer,” said Conover, gravely. “Now let’s talk about something better worth while than me. I was chinnin’ with Caine this afternoon about you. He says if you marry the right sort of man, your place in society’s cinched. What do you think of that?”
“How utterly silly!” she laughed. “Caleb, this society idea of yours has become an obsession. What do I care for that sort of thing? It’s pleasant to be asked to houses where one has a good time. That’s all. It’s like eating ice-cream when one is used to bread pudding. I’m not anxious to eat, drink and breathe nothing but ice-cream three times a day all the rest of my life. Why should I want a ‘cinched place in society’ as you so elegantly put it?”
“You don’t understand,” he insisted. “It means a lot more’n that. With your looks and brains an’—an’ the big lot of cash your father left you,—you could make no end of a hit there. You’d run the whole works inside of five years. You’d have the same sort of position here in Granite that Mrs. Astor an’ those people have in New York. Think of that, Dey! It’s a thing you can’t afford to throw away. When anyone says he don’t care to shine in s’ciety,—well, you may not tell him so; but you think it, all the same. An’ it’d be a crime for you to miss it all. If you marry the right sort of man—”
“‘The right sort of man!’” mimicked Desirée, wrathfully, “Caleb, there are times when I’d like to box your ears. I wish you and Mr. Caine would mind your own grubby Steeloid business and not gabble like two old washerwomen about my affairs. ‘The right sort of a man—!’ Why,—”
“How’d you like to marry Amzi Nicholas Caine?” suggested Conover, tentatively. “Dandy fam’ly,—fairly rich—good looker—travels in the best crowd—”
“Warranted sound and kind—a child can drive him—a good hill climber—guaranteed rustless,” snapped Desirée in lofty contempt. “Caleb, do you want to be made to drink more tea?”