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“But no, M’sieur, it is you who insult my daughter. And that I shall not allow.”

“Allow!” said Tony, and his eyes were dangerous.

“That was the word I used.”

Charbonnel was by far the cooler, it gave him the advantage. Tony saw, and checked himself.

“Mademoiselle has instructed you———?” he asked politely.

Charbonnel’s face changed, but his voice did not falter. “In this matter it is not fitting that my daughter should speak for herself,” he said.

“Perhaps not.” There was rather an ugly twist in Tony’s mouth; “then you wish me to ask her to marry me—is that it? I am honoured that you should think me fit; do you imagine that I have money somewhere in France, and that I come here as a beggar for a whim? For if so you are mistaken.”

Charbonnel was grey with passion, but he was a strong man, and he held himself back. Tony’s chance shot had gone very near the mark; the trader had been sure that a Ste. Croix could not be quite without means if he had the time to idle and travel as Tony had, to judge by his talk.

“You do well to be insolent,” he said. “At present I cannot resent it.”

“By and by you may. Meanwhile, let us go and ask Liane what she thinks.”

He swung round on his heel and strode straight up the short cut that led to the Charbonnels’ house. He was very angry, and wondered how this had come about, but even at that moment he did not blame Liane. That would have been too absurd.

At the last turn of the steep path, with the house in sight, he saw her in the veranda, and turned on her father. “I shall go on alone,” he said.