"You are perfectly right, monsieur," said Mlle. de Sacqueville-Danglars, "and your two questions resume perfectly the conversation we are about to have. I will begin with the second. I have chosen this place in order to avoid the disagreeable sensations and associations that exhale from the study of a banker like the appallingly tasteless perfumes of the Unfashionable Marshes. The coffers, papers, letters, cabinets in tasteless ent-woood, all make a father forget that there are interests more sacred than social status and the opinions of investors, obsessions whereby this house is sunk in honour less than any shepherd's cot. I have preferred this salon graced by smiling portraits of you, my mother, and myself, to say nothing of my delightful statuette of Célesbienne. These, and the charming and moving landscapes of Sarehole, will serve far better in aiding my design."
"Très bien," said Sacqueville-Danglars, who had not understood a word of this tirade.
"That answers your second question," said Éowénie with that masculine aplomb that characterised her voice and gesture, "and you appear satisfied. I will now answer your first question: I do not wish to marry Andurillo Pseudonimo."
Sacqueville-Danglars bounded from his fauteuil, and in the aftershock raised his eyes and arms to heaven.
