He flourished his handkerchief, blew his nose, and gazed into the infinite.
“M. Cabarus,” I said, “you have my sympathy in all this, and as much of my understanding as I dare exercise. But I am a practical person myself, and I must really ask you to be more explicit.”
His pale blue eyes slewed themselves slowly round to regard me.
“Precisely,” he said. “It was to be expected.”
“Am I right in assuming that what you are proposing, and reconciling, to yourself, is a descent from your heights upon matrimony?”
“With your permission, Monsieur,” he said.
“What has my permission to do with it?”
He waved his hand airily.
“Much, Monsieur—or nothing, as it may be. I put the proposition to you formally, as to the one who appears to stand in the position of legal custodian to the object of my devotion.”
“You allude to——?”