“That she bears your name.”
I laughed again, getting out my pipe to fill it.
“Truly, it seems the long arm, Monsieur,” I said. “But, assuming that you are right in approaching me in the matter, your proposition amounts to no more than that you are desirous of marrying my—ward.”
“With all my heart, Monsieur.”
“And is she to have no voice in the matter?”
“I am not so arrogant,” he said, with a sovereign uplifting of himself which belied his words. “It would be false modesty in me, on the other hand, to feign an unconsciousness of the gifts, of the reputation, I could offer her as an equivalent for the priceless gift of herself. Still, for the present, I ask no more than unrestricted permission to make my proposals to that sympathetic paragon of womanhood; and if I assert some confidence as to the result, knowing with what favour she already regards me, I beg you not to attribute it to any conceit of my qualities, but to the sure conviction that Destiny has allotted to us, in conscious affinity, the realisation of the unborn Parsifal.”
“Well, that is enough, Monsieur,” I answered—though with difficulty. “All I can say is, go in and win.”
He looked at me, like a café-chantant monarch, bestowing, by accepting, a favour.
“I have your permission to pay my court?”
“Absolutely. I answer nothing, of course, for the result.”