“How so? They are pretty well matched in age—eighteen and eight-and-twenty—and as to Clide’s family, he cannot certainly count quarterings with the De Xaintriacs, or perhaps even the Bourbonais; but the De Wintons are…”
“Enfantillage,[127] enfantillage!” broke in Raymond with a gesture of wild impatience; “as if it signified in a foreigner living in exile whether his family be illustrious or not, when it is decayed and without the smallest actual weight or position! The disparity I allude to is in fortune. With such a barrier between my daughter and Mr. de Winton, how could any arrangement have entered into my imagination?”
“And you have actually lived all these years in England without getting to understand Englishmen and their ideas better than that!” said Sir Simon. “As if it mattered that”—snapping his fingers—“about any difference in fortune! Why half the wealthiest men I know have married girls without a penny. I did it myself,” added the baronet, with a change from gay to grave in his tone; “my wife had no fortune of her own, and if she had, I wouldn’t have taken a penny with her. No man of spirit, who has a fortune large enough to support his wife properly, likes to take money with her. Clide de Winton has £15,000 a year, and no end of money accumulating in the funds; he hasn’t spent two years’ income these last eight years, I’ll lay a wager; it would be a crying shame if he were to marry a wife with money; but he’s not the man to do it.”
M. de la Bourbonais had risen, and was walking up and down with his hands behind his back and his chin on his breast, his usual attitude when he was thinking hard. It was the first time that the idea of Franceline’s marriage had come home to him in any practical form—indeed, in any form but that of a remote and shadowy abstraction that he might or might not be some day called upon to discuss. He had not discussed his own marriage, and there was no precedent in his mind for discussing hers. As far as his perceptions carried him, those things were entirely arranged by outsiders; when everything was made ready in the business department, the parties concerned were brought together, and the wedding took place. But what business was there to arrange in Franceline’s case? If Mr. de Winton had been a high-born young gentleman without a penny to bless himself with, there would have been some sense in his being proposed as a candidate for Mlle. de la Bourbonais; but it was against all law and precedent that a millionnaire should dream of marrying a girl without a dot.
“This is very foolish” he said, taking another turn up the long room—they were in the library—“if it occurred to you before, you should have told me.”
“Told you what? That Mlle. de la Bourbonais was a deuced pretty girl, and Mr. de Winton a remarkably good-looking young man, neither blind nor devoid of understanding. I should think you might have found that out for yourself.”
“It is not a thing to joke about, Simon. I cannot understand your joking about it.” And Raymond halted before Sir Simon, who was lounging back in his chair, his coat thrown back, and his thumbs stuck into his waistcoat, while he surveyed his friend’s anxious face with a look of comical satisfaction. “Has Mr. de Winton spoken to you on the subject?”
“No.”
“Have you said anything to him about it?”
“Not I!”