"I liked him: and I made him talk to me about himself. It was not easy, for these English men are stupidly reticent, but I dragged his story out of him bit by bit—or at least as much of it as I could—and I can tell you, my good André, that never have I admired a man so much as I do this Mr. Clyffurde . . . for never have I met so unselfish a one. I declare that if I were only a few years younger," she continued whimsically, "and even so . . . heigh! but I am not so old after all. . . ."
"My dear Sophie!" ejaculated the Comte.
"Eh, what?" she retorted tartly, "you would object to a tradesman as a brother-in-law, would you? What about a de Marmont for a son? Eh?"
"Victor de Marmont is a soldier in the army of our legitimate King. His uncle the Duc de Raguse. . . ."
"That's just it," broke in Madame again, "I don't like de Marmont because he is a de Marmont."
"Is that the only reason for your not liking him?"
"The only one," she replied. "But I must say that this Mr. Clyffurde . . ."
"You must not harp on that string, Sophie," said the Comte sternly. "It is too ridiculous. To begin with Clyffurde never cared for Crystal, and, secondly, Crystal was already engaged to de Marmont when Clyffurde arrived here, and, thirdly, let me tell you that my daughter has far too much pride in her ever to think of a shopkeeper in the light of a husband even if he had ten times this Mr. Clyffurde's fortune."
"Then everything is comfortably settled, André. And now that we have returned to our sheep, and have both arrived at the conclusion that nothing stands in the way of Crystal's marriage with Victor de Marmont, I suppose that I may presume that my audience is at an end."
"I only wished to hear your opinion, my good Sophie," rejoined M. le Comte. And he rose stiffly from his chair.