“Oh, you did?—and what’s the matter with him—I mean what’s the matter with you?”
“How?”
“How! The best match in Europe and you say ‘no’ to him—a man who could marry where he pleases and whom he pleased and you say ‘no.’ Good-looking, without vices, richer than many a crowned head, second only to the reigning families—and you say ‘no.’”
The old lady was working herself up. This admirer of Anarchasis Clootz and dilletanti of Anarchism had lately possessed one supreme desire, the desire to have for niece the Princess Selm.
“I thought you didn’t believe in all that,” said the girl.
“All what?”
“Titles, wealth and so forth.”
“I believe in seeing you happy and well-placed. I was not thinking of myself—well, there, it’s done. There is no use in talking any more, for I know your disposition. You are hard, mademoiselle, that is your failing—without real heart. It is the modern disease. Well, that is all I have to say. I wish you good-night.”
She put on her spectacles again.
“Good-night,” said the other.