But she must listen to her father. He was talking now about the
powers of wealth, not merely the nominal riches of his somewhat
precarious political affiliations, but solid, sustaining, invested
and invulnerable wealth.

Unexpectedly Aimée laughed. "He must be very plain," she declared,
her face brightening with mockery, "if you take so long to tell me
his name!"

Not, she added to herself under her breath, that any name would
weigh a feather's difference!

"On the contrary," and the pasha's eyes met hers frankly for the
first time and he seemed delighted to indulge a laugh, "he has the
reputation of good looks. He is much _à la mode_."

"Beautiful and golden--did you meet him just to-night, my father?"
Aimée went on, in that light audacity which he had loved to indulge.

Now he smiled, but his glance went uneasily away from her.

"Not at all. This is a serious affair, you understand--the devil of
a serious affair!" and for the first time she felt she heard the
accents of his candor.

But again he was back to voluble protestation. This man was really
an old friend. He boggled over the word, then got it out resonantly.
A man he knew well. Not a young man, perhaps--certainly he was not
going to hand his only daughter to any boy, a mere novice in
life!--but a man who could give her the position she deserved. Not