"We do not want any dot at all," began Fergus in an angry voice, but John Mansfield rose and interrupted him.
"We will go home at once and fetch the little one so that you may have three months' joy in her society, M'sieur le Comte," he said. "At the end of that time, I will myself fetch her to spend three months with her Irish grandfather."
"That is well," said the Comte; "that is as it ought to be."
"How soon then may we expect the little Comtesse Margot?" said the present Comtesse St. Juste.
"Within a week from now," said Fergus firmly.
"Ah, then, I must be preparing her little wardrobe. Think of that, my adorable Alphonse. The wardrobe of thy little Comtesse. Of what height is she, M'sieur Desmond, and of what breadth and of what colour? My taste is of the rarest. Come with me for one moment all alone, M'sieur Mansfield; you have seen most of her and can describe her best."
She ushered Mr. Mansfield into the salon, which adjoined that of the old Comte.
Mansfield found great difficulty in describing his little angel and Madame did not fail to notice that in spite of every endeavour the tears trembled to his eyes, although on no account would he allow them to fall.
"Oh, la, la! she is beautiful," exclaimed the Comtesse, when his description had come to an end. "Monsieur Englishman you are good. On that point rest assured. You have the distinction of bearing. I note it. I would that you could talk with our parish priest. You live among the high and holy things, M'sieur. Now, then, I have a little secret to impart, I would not tell it to another, but to you, yes, you have the air—the eye so clear and frank. Now, Monsieur, when I married the Comte, he was great with the notion that I, his little Ninon, had given up all the chapeaux and the robes that brought in the money—the francs so numerous that I could make the old place look like it did so long ago, but I did not give up my établissement, m'sieur. Mon Dieu! I could not—I could not live without my gifts—I could not live without my silks and my satins, my lace, all real, I assure you; my opera cloaks, my tortoise-shell ostrich feather fans. No, no, I keep my magasin going, so that I can give a good dot to the little Comtesse, and the old man he knows nothing about it. He must never—never know—must my adorable Alphonse."