“You love the girl—isn’t that everything?”
“No.”
“You didn’t propose to her?”
“No.”
“Did you ask her about her family?”
“I did not,” loftily.
“You wish to know what her station in life is, and whether she can with propriety be taken into the aristocratic family of the Macartneys?”
“Yes,” shortly; “if you will be so kind as to tell me.”
“Here’s the matter in a nutshell then. Her father was French, mother ditto, grandfathers and grandmothers the same—all poorest of the poor, and tillers of the soil. Her father got out of the peasant ring, became confidential man for Colonel Armour, and when he reached years of discretion, which was before I did, I believe that he embezzled largely, burnt the Armours’ warehouse, and not being arrested, decamped—the whole thing to the tune of some thousands of dollars. That is her father’s record.”
Captain Macartney was visibly disturbed. “How long ago did this take place?”