Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. “Let me see,” he said. It was a night well-fitted to their enterprise, calm, still, and profoundly dark. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. Eh bien, why did he not repeat it? What was she to say? ‘Prudence,’ she began hesitantly, pronouncing the name in the French way, ‘has said that she will help me to—to marry an Englishman. ’ ‘But Marthe, this is idiot.
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