"Give me one, then," he asked impatiently.
"She is a mere child."
"No; she is a grown-up woman."
"We—would be a most incongruous couple, a butterfly, and a black working ant."
"I cannot see that."
"Besides, Angel is not to be disposed of in such a summary fashion; she would laugh at the bare idea."
"Is she not well disposed to you?" and Padre Eliot eyed him searchingly.
"Oh, yes; as a child she was extremely fond of me."
"'On revient toujours a ses premiers amours,'" quoted his visitor with significance.
"Eliot, you are a clever fellow, and my friend," said Gascoigne, suddenly, "but you are neither going to talk me, or quote me, into matrimony. I have never—that is to say, not for years—thought of marrying."