“Of course not; but that will not satisfy her.”
“No, it will not,” said the old Frenchman, as he swallowed another glass of wine. “She seems to me to be what one might call madly infatuated; but, dear me, women are such strange creatures, that one hardly knows what to say to them. She wants to come to this country.”
“Yes—so she gave me to understand.”
“To be near you—that is her only reason, I believe. Ah, she is infatuated! But you mustn’t compromise yourself merely for the sake of a love-sick woman.”
“What would you advise me to do, then?”
“Ah, that is a question one finds it difficult to answer upon the spur of the moment.”
“But you have thought the matter over, I suppose.”
“I have certainly given it due consideration, but then I am not Lord Ethalwood—I am only an old military officer. My view of the case and yours may be diametrically opposite; don’t you see that?”
“Yes, I quite understand what you mean, but take another glass.”
“Thank you. It is unfortunate for us—and especially so for her—that her mother died at this juncture, but it could not be helped, and it is not, therefore, any use dwelling upon it.”