"The friendly phrase for 'senile.' Depend upon it, people said that to Methuselah. Supposing—a man is never too old to make a fool of himself, you know—supposing, for the sake of argument, I felt a tenderness, a devotion for a girl scarcely older than Blanche: a devotion which I strove to think platonic, even while I sighed under her window, and which revived in me unsought, the emotions—all the sentiment, the throes, the absurdities—of the youth that had gone from me before I knew how divine it was. Would it—could it—is it imaginable that she might not laugh?"
"She would not laugh if she were worth it all."
"To marry me for love—a girl? To see me romantic without thinking me ridiculous—to melt to my tears, not shrink from the crows'-feet round my eyes? I wonder!"
"If you choose wisely, you will not wonder."
"In love, who chooses? Fate decides. What would you call 'wisely'? She should be—how old?"
"Old enough to know her mind. Young enough to attract you."
"For the rest?"
"She should have means, that you might never fear it had been yours that won her. She should have affection for your child, that she might know no jealousy of yours. She should take interest in your child's future, that, if you were wilful, she might guide you.... To revert to madame Daudenarde, I counsel you to write to-day that you consent."
Vauquelin stood gazing at her incredulously.
"Georgette! Georgette!" he panted. "Do you know you have given me your own portrait?"