“Heaven knows,” said I, shrugging my shoulders.
“I doubt it. Why, in the name of common sense, as you'd got to the age of twenty-seven without bothering about love, couldn't you wait till the age of twenty-seven and a quarter, go quietly over to my country with me, a long sight better than the ‘end of the world,’ and propose to a charming American girl of rational age and plenty of dollars?”
“A rational age?”
“Over eighteen, anyhow. I believe you Latins have a fancy for these little white ingénues, who don't know which side their bread's buttered, or how to say anything but ‘Yes, please,’ and ‘No, thank you.’ When my time comes, the girl must be twenty-two and a good, patriotic American.”
“American girls are fascinating, but I happen to be in love with an English one, and it's her misfortune and mine, not our fault, that she's eighteen instead of twenty-two.”
“A big misfortune. You mustn't kidnap an infant. That's what makes it awkward. As I said, you can't back out now.”
“Not while I live.”
“Don't be so Spanish. But come to think of it, I suppose you can't help that. What do you mean to do next?”
“Watch. And get word to Monica.”
“Angèle de la Mole will do what she can for you.”