Beverley Claghorn looking upon his daughter, perhaps, also saw a visionary future. He loved her, of course. He respected her, too, for had not her mother been of the ancient House of Fleury? It was no ignoble blood which lent the damask tint to cheeks upon which he gazed with complacent responsibility for their being. The precious fluid, coursing beneath the fair skin, if carefully analyzed, should exhibit corpuscles tinged with royal azure. For, was it not true that a demoiselle of her mother's line had been, in ancient days, graciously permitted to bear a son to a king of France, from which son a noble House had sprung with the proud privilege of that bar sinister which proclaimed its glory? These were facts well worthy to be the foundation of a vision in which he saw the maid before him a wife of one of the old noblesse; a mother of sons who would uphold the sacred cause of Legitimacy, as their ancestors (including himself, for he was a furious Legitimist) had done before them. It would solace the dreaded status of grandfather.
"What are you thinking of, Natalie?" he asked in French.
"Of many things; principally that I am sorry he showed them to us."
"The trout?"
"Yes, I am so hungry."
"They have sharpened your appetite. They are beautiful fish."
"I'm glad they haven't spoiled it. Why, papa, they were alive! Did you see their gills palpitate?"
"They are very dead now."
"And we shall eat them. It seems a pity."
He laughed. "Grief will not prevent your enjoyment," he said; "you will have a double luxury—of woe, and——"