“Yes, I think he is handsome,” I replied. “But that has nothing to do with it.”
“Not much, truly,” said the Judge drily. “And this is all you know?”
“Or desire to know. It seems to me quite enough to know of an acquaintance of a few days’ standing.”
“Well—well,” he answered, shaking his head a little.
“Well. He is all that you say. A very fine young man, he seems. I like him. Well, I will make inquiries.”
“Not on my account, I intreat, Judge Selwyn,”—said I, interrupting him eagerly.
“Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf,” he said drily, though half in jest, “my head is an old one, yours a very young one. I know young folks are apt to think old heads good for nothing.”
“I do not, I am sure,” interrupted I, again. “I do not, indeed.”
“Nor I, Valerie,”—he answered, interrupting me in his turn, with a good-natured smile. “So you shall let me have my way in this matter. But, to relieve you, my dear, permit me to observe that I have two daughters of my own, and one young son, besides Charles, who is old enough to take care of himself; and, though I am very glad to ask a young man to dine in my house who has, as you observe, very good manners, and is neither a fool nor a coxcomb, I am not at all willing that he should become what you call an habitué, until I know something of his character and principles. And now, as the dressing-bell has rung these ten minutes, and it will take you at least half-an-hour to beautify your little person, I advise you to make the most of your time. And by all means, Valerie, stick to your resolution—never marry, my dear, never marry; for all men are tyrants.”
One might be very sure that I profited by this dismissal, and ran across the lawn as fast as I could, glad to escape the far-sighted experience of the shrewd old lawyer.