“Precisely, madame, precisely. But now that matters have improved—in fact, madame, the long and short of the business is that I should wish to have Madame Léon painted, and placed in the gallery with the other De Beaudrillarts.”
There was a pause such as follows a crash, an earthquake, or any other horrible and unexpected convulsion. Nathalie cried out, “Oh no!” but her father turned his back upon her, and hands on knees gazed squarely at Mme. de Beaudrillart. She stared back at him as if she had failed to comprehend his proposal.
“Madame Léon! In the picture-gallery!”
“Precisely, madame. Painted by the best artist in France.”
“Monsieur, I do not think you understand what you suggest. Those are our ancestors, the old De Beaudrillarts.”
“Exactly why I wish to see her among them.”
He leaned back, and faced her, the image of dogged resolution.
“But—monsieur, it is impossible!”
“And why, madame!”
“Because—because it is altogether unsuitable.” She would have liked to have said “preposterous.”