"You can't be in love with her, or you wouldn't be trying so hard to
marry her to some one else--not unless you're a bigger fool than you
look."
"I hope I'm not that," he laughed.
"Well, I shall have nothing to do with it--nothing. Between my niece and
me--tout est fini." She darted from him, swerving again like a bird on
the wing. "I don't know you. You come here with what may be no more than
a cock-and-bull story, to get inside the château."
"I shouldn't expect you to do anything, madame, without verifying all
I've told you. For the matter of that, it'll be easy enough. You've only
to write to your men of business, or--which would be better still--take
a trip to America for yourself."
She threw out her arms with a tragic gesture. "My good man, I haven't
been in America for forty years. I nearly died of it then. What it must
be like now--"
"It wouldn't be so fine as this, madame, nor so picturesque. But it
would be full of people who'd be fond of you, not for the sou--but for
yourself."
She did her best to be offended. "You're taking liberties, monsieur.
C'est bien américan, céla."
"Excuse me, madame," he said, humbly. "I only mean that they _are_ fond
of you--at least, I I know Miss Guion is. Two nights before I sailed I
heard her almost crying for you--yes, almost crying. That's why I came.
I thought I'd come and tell you. I should think it might mean something
to you--over here so long--all alone--to have some one like that--such
a--such a--such a wonderful young lady wanting you--in her trouble--"
"And such a wonderful young man wanting his money back. Oh, I'm not
blind, monsieur. I see a great deal more than you think. I see through
and through you. You fancy you're throwing dust in my eyes, and you
haven't thrown a grain. Pouff! Oh, la, la! Mais, c'est fini. As for my
niece--le bon Dieu l' a bien punie. For me to step in now would be to
interfere with the chastisement of Providence. Le bon Dieu is always
right. I'll say that for Him. Good morning." She touched a bell. "The
man will show you to the door. If you like to stroll about the
grounds--now that you've got in--well, you can."
With sleeves blowing she sped down the room as if on pinions. The
man-servant waited respectfully. Davenant stood his ground, hoping for
some sign of her relenting. It was almost over her shoulder that she
called back:
"Where are you staying?"
He told her.
"Stupid place. You'll find the Chariot d'Or at Melcourt a great deal
nicer. Simple, but clean. An old chef of mine keeps it. Tell him I sent
you. And ask for his poularde au riz."