"It's very simple; when a man's in love he never talks it over with a man—no, he always goes to another woman."
"Well, would you be surprised if I married Miss Charters?" he said, glad to have arrived at the only topic which interested him.
"If you what!" exclaimed Mme. Fornez, catapulting from the sofa.
"If I marry," he repeated firmly.
"Marry? Oh, no, no, no!" she cried, with her hands on her hips and bobbing her head to each negation. "Amuse yourself—love—flirt—break her heart or break yours—est-ce que je sais—but marry? What! You are mad!"
"I mean it."
"No, impossible! Marry one of us—an actress—you—a nice boy? Allons donc. You ought to be shut up. Marry Chartèrs. You might just as well marry Emma Fornez, and when I say that—oh, la, la! My poor boy, I pity you!"
"But you all marry."
"True. But what difference does it make to us?" she threw out her chin, the gesture of the peasant. "You are serious?"
"Very."