“Give me one,” she challenged him.
“He is twice your age.”
“Hardly so much,” said she.
“He is forty-five, at least.”
“But he looks no more than thirty. He is very handsome—so much you will admit; nor will you deny that he is very wealthy and very powerful; the greatest nobleman in Brittany. He will make me a great lady.”
“God made you that, Aline.”
“Come, that’s better. Sometimes you can almost be polite.” And she moved along the terrace, Andre-Louis pacing beside her.
“I can be more than that to show reason why you should not let this beast befoul the beautiful thing that God has made.”
She frowned, and her lips tightened. “You are speaking of my future husband,” she reproved him.
His lips tightened too; his pale face grew paler.