The dowager regarded her with a smile of amusement.
“Shall you always regard marriage as merely an accident?” she asked. “Some day it will be presented to you in such a practical, advantageous way that you will cease to think it all chance.”
“Advantageous?” and the Marquise raised her brows; “could we be more happy than we are?” The old face softened at the words and tone.
“But I shall not be always with you,” she replied; “and then––”
“Alain knew,” said the girl, softly. “He said as a widow I could have liberty. I would need no guardian; I could look after all my affairs as young girls could not do. Each year I shall grow older––more competent.”
“But there is one thing Alain did not foresee: that your many suitors would rob you of peace until you made choice of some particular one. These late days I have felt I should like the choice to be made while I am here to see.”
“Maman! you are not ill?” and in a moment she was beside the couch.
“No; I think not; no, no, nothing to alarm you. I have only been thinking that together––both of us to plan and arrange––yet I need Loris daily. And if there should be only one of us, that remaining one would need some man’s help all the more, and if it were you, who then would the man be? You perceive! It is wise to make plans for all possibilities.”
“There are women who live alone.”
“Not happy women,” said the dowager in a tone, admitting of no contradiction; “the women who live alone from choice are cold and selfish; or have hurts to hide and are heart-sick of a world in which their illusions have been destroyed; or else they have never known companionship, 49 and so never feel the lack of it. My child, I will not have you like any of these; you were made to enjoy life, and life to the young should mean––well, I am a sentimentalist. I married the one man who had all my affection. I approve of such marriages. If the man comes for whom you would care like that, I should welcome him.”