"She never seemed to
belong to me by right--only a bird I had caught and caged, that loved me
well, yet was eager to escape."
"Such, was the state of the case, I cannot doubt; a more out and out
flesh-and-blood organization would suit you better. Your life is not
half spent; the dreary time is to come. Go back to Bellevue, and get you
a kind companion, and let children climb your knees, and surround your
hearth. You would be so much happier."
"Suggest one, then. Come, help me to a wife."
"No, no, I can make no matches; but you know Madame de St. Aube is a
widow now. You were always congenial."
"Yes, but"--with a shrug of his shoulders, worthy of a Frenchman--"_que
voulez vous_? That woman has five children already, and a plantation
mortgaged to Maginnis!"
"Maginnis again! The very name sends a chill through my bones! No, that
will never do. Some maiden lady, then--some sage person of thirty-four
or five."
"I do not fancy such. I'll tell you what! I believe I will go back and
court Bertie on some of her play-acting rounds, and mate a decent woman
of that little vagabond. Because she was disappointed once, is that a
reason? Great Heavens! this tongue of mine! Cut it out, Mrs. Wentworth,
and cast it to the seals in the bay. I came very near--"
"Betraying what I have long suspected. Major Favraud.
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