The conscientiousness with which they're kept up is not quite so
formidable."
So they walked down the side of the Grand Canal, admiring the rather
pensive beauty of the late November woods, and talking, as was the
proper thing, about the great Louis and his court, and how they both
detested his style of gilded, carved wall ornamentation, although his
chairs weren't as bad as some others. They turned off at the cross-arm
of the Canal towards the Great Trianon; they talked, again dutifully
in the spirit of the place, about Madame de Maintenon. They differed
on this subject just enough to enjoy discussing it. Page averred that
the whole affair had always passed his comprehension, "--what that
ease-loving, vain, indulgent, trivial-minded grandson of Henri Quatre
could ever have seen for all those years in that stiff, prim, cold old
school-ma'am--"
But Sylvia shook her head. "I know how he felt. He _had_ to have her,
once he'd found her. She was the only person in all his world he could
depend on."
"Why not depend on himself?" Page asked.
"Oh, he couldn't! He couldn't! She had character and he hadn't."
"What do you mean by character?" he challenged her.
"It's what I haven't!" she said.
He attempted a chivalrous exculpation. "Oh, if you mean by character
such hard, insensitive lack of imagination as Madame de Maintenon's--"
"No, not that," said Sylvia.
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