But there was nothing mysterious about the arrangements of the match
which Madame Leonie had arranged. There was nothing peculiar, either. It
was a very appropriate match, commending itself extremely to the young
lady's mother (her father was dead) and tolerable to the young lady's
uncle--an old _emigre_, lately returned from Germany, and pervading cane
in hand like a lean ghost of the _ancien regime_ in a long-skirted brown
coat and powdered hair, the garden walks of the young lady's ancestral
home.
General D'Hubert was not the man to be satisfied merely with the girl
and the fortune--when it came to the point. His pride--and pride aims
always at true success--would be satisfied with nothing short of love.
But as pride excludes vanity, he could not imagine any reason why this
mysterious creature, with deep and candid eyes of a violet colour,
should have any feeling for him warmer than indifference. The young lady
(her name was Adele) baffled every attempt at a clear understanding on
that point. It is true that the attempts were clumsy and timidly made,
because by then General D'Hubert had become acutely aware of the number
of his years, of his wounds, of his many moral imperfections, of his
secret unworthiness--and had incidentally learned by experience the
meaning of the word funk. As far as he could make it out she seemed
to imply that with a perfect confidence in her mother's affection and
sagacity she had no pronounced antipathy for the person of General
D'Hubert; and that this was quite sufficient for a well-brought-up
dutiful young lady to begin married life upon.
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