Wratislav
"These things sometimes skip a generation, you know," put in the Baroness, with the breathless haste of one to whom repartee comes as rarely as the finding of a gold-handled umbrella.
"My dear Sophie," said the Gräfin sweetly, "that isn't in the least bit clever; but you do try so hard that I suppose I oughtn't to discourage you. Tell me something; has it ever occurred to you that Elsa would do very well for Wratislav? It's time he married somebody, and why not Elsa?"
"Elsa marry that dreadful boy!" gasped the Baroness.
"Beggars can't be choosers," observed the Gräfin.
"Elsa isn't a beggar!"
"Not financially, or I shouldn't have suggested the match. But she's getting on, you know, and has no pretensions to brains or looks or anything of that sort."
"You seem to forget that she's my daughter."
"That shows my generosity. But, seriously, I don't see what there is against Wratislav. He has no debts—at least, nothing worth speaking about."
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