r eyes that glittered like frost.

But George, for all his love, showed a little masculine impatience.

"Reserve is very good," he said; "but we can't all be Lord Burleighs by
holding our tongues. There is a sort of silence that is pregnant with
nothing."

"George, you cannot mean to insult my father?"

"No, dear. But why does he make such a mystery of his past? I would have
mine as clear as a window, for all to look through. Why does he treat me
with such suave and courteous opposition--permitting my suit, yet
withholding his consent?"

"If you could be less democratic, dear--"

"It is a religion with me--not a brutal indulgence."

"Perhaps he cannot dissociate the two. Then, he admires your genius and
commends your courage; but your poor purse hungers, my lover, and he
desires riches for his Plancine."

"And Plancine?"

"She will die a grey-haired maid for thee, 'O Richard! O my king!'"

"My sweet--my bird--my wife! Oh, that you could be that now and kiss me
on to fortune! I should be double-souled and inspired. A few months, and
Madame la Vicomtesse should 'walk in silk attire.' I flame at the
picture. Why will your father not yield you gracefully, instead of plying
us with that eternal enigma of Black Venn?"

"Because enthusiasm alone may not command wealth," said a deep voice near
them.

Papa had come upon them unobserved. The young man wheeled and charged
while his blood was hot.

"Mr. De Jussac, it is a shame to hold me in this unending suspense."

"Is it not better than decided rejection?"

"I have served like Jacob. You cannot doubt my single-hearted devotion?"

"I doubt nothing, my George" (about _his_ accent there was no tender
compromise)--"I doubt nothing, but that the balance at your bankers' is
excessive."

"You would not value Plancine at so much bullion?"

"But yes, my friend; for bullion is the algebraic formula that represents
comfort. When Black Venn slips his apron--"

George made a gesture of impatience.

"When Black Venn slips his apron," repeated the father quietly, "I shall
be in a position to consider your suit."

"That is tantamount to putting me off altogether. It is ungenerous. It is
preposterous. You may or may not be right; but it is simply farcical
(Plancine cried, "George!"--but he went on warmly, nevertheless) to make
our happiness contingent on the possible tumbling down of a bit of old
cliff--an accident that, after all, may never happen."

"Ah!" the quiet,