“There is none possible.”
“A betrothal, for instance, on the conditions you were good enough to suggest? I am flattered—it goes without saying—by your proposal. I admit myself distinguished, actually and potentially, in the connection. But the child is but fifteen.”
“I can never consent to it. It puts ten thousand obstacles of accident and caprice between me and my attainment of beatitude. Mademoiselle to-day is an angel, but every feather of her wings, so tied, would invite the cupidity of worldlings—those robbers of the heavenly roost. I know them well. I must, indeed, have the first and last right to protect her.”
“Must, Count? Is she yours or mine? I have said enough, and you, I think, more than enough.”
His brows and his mouth closed down. His vanity could be a very obstinate devil. Di Rocco felt that he had touched his limits.
“Ah! my friend,” he pleaded, “love’s best proof of itself is in outrunning discretion. I went, in truth, too far. Let me hark back to reason. I pledge you my credit that within a month my father-in-law shall be War Minister. Di Broglio wearies of his office, and waits but for an efficient successor. Give me, I entreat you, that warrant to enlarge upon your claims.”
“No, no, the poor child—scarce arrived at woman’s estate.”
“Then let her come to it, for me, unabashed. Make her mine ceremonially, and I swear on my honour to postpone the consummation for a year.”
“Ah! And if you fail?”
“I ask no pledge until my success is assured.”