He found himself reciting glibly Ashley's claims as a suitor in the way of family, position, and fortune.
"So that it would be what some people might call a good match."
"The best sort of match. It's the kind of thing she's made for—that she'd be happy in—regiments, and uniforms, and glory, and presenting prizes, and all that."
"Hm. I shall have nothing to do with it." She rose with dignity. "If my niece had only held out a little finger—"
"It was a case, madame," he argued, rising, too—"it was a case in which she couldn't hold out a little finger without offering her whole hand."
"You know nothing about it. I'm wrong to discuss it with you at all. I'm sure I don't know why I do, except that—"
"Except that I'm an American," he suggested—"one of your own."
"One of my own! Quelle idée! Do you like him—this Englishman?"
He hedged. "Miss Guion likes him."
"But you don't."