"And has she sent you as her messenger? Why can't she come herself, if it's so bad as all that—or write? I thought she was married—to some Englishman."
"They're not married yet, madame; and unless you help her I don't see how they're going to be—the way things stand."
"Unless I help her! My good fellow, you don't know what you're saying. Do you know that she refused—refused violently—to help me?"
He shook his head, his blue eyes betraying some incredulity.
"Well, then, I'll tell you. It'll show you. You'll be able to go away again with a clear conscience, knowing you've done your best and failed. Sit down."
As she showed no intention of taking a seat herself, he remained standing.
"She refused the Duc de Berteuil." She made the statement with head erect and hands flung apart. "I suppose you have no idea of what that meant to me?"
"I'm afraid I haven't."
"Of course you haven't. I don't know an American who would have. You're so engrossed in your own small concerns. None of you have any conception of the things that really matter—the higher things. Well, then, let me tell you. The Duc de Berteuil is—or rather was—the greatest parti in France. He isn't any more, because they've married him to a rich girl from South America or one of those places—brown as a berry—with a bust—" She rounded her arms to give an idea of the bust. "Mais, n'importe. My niece refused him. That meant—I've never confessed it to any one before—I've been too proud—but I want you to understand—it meant my defeat—my final defeat. I hadn't the courage to begin again. C'était le désastre. C'était Sedan."
"Oh, madame!"