"Charming—but hardly de rigueur for a de Fleury."
"She is a Claghorn."
"An excellent thing to be; enviable indeed, my dear,—in America. But she will be a Parisienne; we hope a de Fleury, of a house by inheritance religious. The wife of the Marquis de Fleury must uphold the family traditions. Do you not see, my friend, that it is thirty generations of nobles that insist."
Monsieur Claghorn, though in doubt as to God, believed in the generations. He had long looked forward to the time when his daughter should be united to the last scion of this ancient race. True, the title was in these days purely ornamental; but, though a philosopher, he was not of that unwise class which can see no value in adornment. He suspected that the noble Marquis, whose coronet he craved for his daughter, as well as his mama, the little lady to whom he was talking, were in truth as much interested in the material as in the spiritual attributes of the future mother of the race, but he was also aware that there were other influences to be considered.
"Perhaps Père Martin is even more insistent than the thirty generations," he suggested.
"Even so, my friend; when Père Martin insists it is my conscience that insists."
"After all, Louise, this discussion is premature. Adolphe is still at St. Cyr, Natalie at school——"
"But to-day we prepare for to-morrow. Adolphe will soon be a lieutenant, your daughter a woman. Let her come to me. Our prayers, those of Père Martin and mine, cannot harm her."
"Assuredly not, still——"
"But my good pagan, do you intend to refuse? Is it worth nothing to your daughter to be introduced by the Marquise de Fleury?"