"Going to what?"
"Going to be married, papa. That is, if I have your leave. Of course any offer of that kind that I have accepted is subject to your approval."
"And I have been told nothing about it!"
"It began at Perivale, and I could not tell you then. You do not ask me who is to be my husband."
"It is not Will Belton?"
"Poor Will! No; it is not Will. It is Frederic Aylmer. I think you would prefer him as a son-in-law even to my cousin Will."
"No I shouldn't. Why should I prefer a man whom I don't even know, who lives in London, and who will take you away, so that I shall never see you again?"
"Dear papa;—don't speak of it in that way. I thought you would be glad to know that I was to be so—so—so happy!"
"But why is it to be done this way,—of a sudden? Why didn't he come to me? Will came to me the very first thing."
"He couldn't come all the way to Belton very well;—particularly as he does not know you."