She drew back a pace or two, and exclaimed—
“Mention it to my father! You must be mad to make such a proposition.”
“He would never consent?”
“Consent! He would die first. Oh, you do not know him.”
The Italian shrugged his shoulders, and looked on the ground in a desponding manner.
The lovers parted.
A day or two after this the Italian went to Broxbridge Hall for the purpose of giving his usual lesson. He met his lordship in the passage, who bowed stiffly and passed on.
“Can he suspect anything?” murmured the professor, “or is it the natural pride which all the English aristocracy have, more or less? Ah, she’s right enough! It will never do to mention the subject to him. Ha, ha, we must elope!”
He told his pupil of the meeting, and informed her also that her parent was stiff and haughty in his manner.
“That is not unusual with him,” she answered. “It’s his way. Do not take any notice of it.”