"Georges?"
"What do you say to that?"
"Are you certain it is true?"
"True? He makes no secret of it. That isn't all. The idiot wants to marry her!"
"Georges wants to marry an actress?"
"Voilà!"
"My dear old friend!" I stammered.
"Isn't it amazing? One thinks one knows the character of one's own son, hein? And then, suddenly, a boy—a boy? A man! Georges will soon be thirty—a man one is proud of, who is distinguishing himself in his profession, he loses his head about some creature of the theatre and proposes to mar his whole career."
"As for that, it might not mar it," I said.
"We are not in England, in France gentlemen do not choose their wives from the stage! I can speak freely to you; you move among these people because your writing has taken you among them, but you are not of their breed,"