"You are already celebrated as the discoverer of the mammoth and the great auk," she persisted. "You are young, enthusiastic, renowned, and you have a future before you that anybody in the world might envy."
I said nothing.
"And yet," she said, softly, "you risk all because you will not leave a young woman friendless among her confrères. It is not wise, monsieur; it is gallant and generous and impulsive, but it is not wisdom. Don Quixote rides no more in Europe, my friend."
"He stays at home—seventy million of him—in America," said I.
After a moment she said, "I believe you, monsieur."
"It is true enough," I said, with a laugh. "We are the only people who tilt at windmills these days—we and our cousins, the British, who taught us."
I bowed gayly, and added:
"With your colors to wear, I shall have the honor of breaking a lance against the biggest windmill in the world."
"You mean the Citadel of Science," she said, smiling.
"And its rock-ribbed respectability," I replied.