“Perhaps it is,” replied Otto, “in some respects. But it seems to me worth making.”
“Possibly. There are no bounds to human selfishness. Men have thrown away an empire for a night of dalliance. And the heritage of the Helmonts is not an empire by any means. I am sure I wish you a more protracted period of enjoyment. Then, at least, one person will get satisfaction out of this miserable business. Yes, as there is no help for it, I may as well wish you joy. Wish him joy, Cécile.”
“No,” said the Baroness.
“Anyhow, I suppose it won’t make much difference to you, Otto? Nor, alas, to us. And now that all the preliminaries are settled, and you know our mind exactly and we yours—excuse my putting you last—we had better swallow down the rest of the unpleasantness as soon as possible. Bring up Ursula at once, and we will give her our blessing. Bring her before dinner if you can. I’m sure I wish you had her waiting in the drawing-room. I will say this: she is a good-looking girl, and, I honestly believe, a good one. But what a reason for marrying her!”
He threw up his hands with his familiar gesture of comical dismay, and turning his back on his son and heir, went and sat down by the Baroness. Otto walked slowly from the room, leaving the old couple together.
The little turret-chamber, all flowered silk and china shepherds, looked strangely unreal, like a painting on porcelain. The light crept in through its rounded window with a curve that lent to everything a glamour as of glaze. The occupants themselves, bending near to each other, the toy-dog between them, their delicate features still touched, as it seemed, with eighteenth-century powder, had the appearance of Dresden figures seen under a shiny glass case. But their sorrow was very real, none the less so because the Baron was endeavoring, as it buzzed around them, to catch and kill it in the folds of a cambric handkerchief.
“Theodore,” began the Baroness, twisting her rings, “you are always right. I do not mean to doubt your judgment. But it seems to me that you almost encouraged him to do what you disapproved. You—you told him how bad it was, how wicked, and then you wished him joy.”
“My dear,” replied the Baron, “you cannot push over the precipice a man who has already leaped. His mind was made up, and nothing would have changed it. I know Otto. This is just the kind of idiotic thing he might be expected to do. Some men cannot keep away from any folly which has an appearance of elevation. Their souls positively itch to commit it, whether it be useful or pleasant or not. Otto has always been like that. He is a Don Quixote of foolishness. Had Ursula not existed, he would have been bound to invent her.”
“Unfortunately she exists,” replied the Baroness. “But you might have argued, protested—”