"Alors," said Sacqueville-Danglars, pale with an anger that did not at all have its source in offended paternal love. "You continue, mademoiselle, to will the consummation of my ruin? Obstinate fool! Running wilfully to the arts and ruining my credit! You would take my investments to my competitors and sell them all. Have you nothing to unsay?"
"Unsay?"
"Yes; I endeavoured to advise you for your own good, but you scarcely listened. You are proud and do not love advice, being yourself a formidable wit, so that when you were young it was a favourite parlour-game for you to refute our guests' theories about Terre-moyenne. I fear that in my eagerness to persuade you, I lost patience. I regret it, for I bear you no ill-will; are we not both members of one of the richest houses in Arnor? Much we could accomplish together, to heal the disorders of our finances, could you but listen tranquilly. In wedding you, M. Pseudonimo brings you a dowry of 3 million mushroom-lions."
"Bien!" said Éowénie with a sovereign contempt.
"You think I will cheat you of these three millions? Not at all; those three million are destined to create at least ten, as was foretold by Malbet the Wit; for mine is the Grey Company he prophesied. I have obtained the concession of a smiau de fer, the only industry that today provides those fabulous chances for success that formerly Sauron prognosticated for the Numenoreans, those eternal badauds of speculation, in a fantastic Valinor."
