"Let it decide for you now, sir," said Kingsley, in a tone both light and earnest. "No, do not take it amiss that I make this proposition, but listen to me a moment. Hitherto I have been pretty well thrust aside in this matter, as if I were a bit of stone, without feelings, or something very nearly resembling a monster with them. I am quite conscious that I am of an erratic disposition, flying hither and thither as the whim seizes me--almost as bad, my dear sir, as your eccentric wanderings in a caravan--but I am not at all conscious that I have any very distinct vice in me; the explanation of which may be that I lack strength of character, a proof that it is as undesirable in one man as it is desirable in another. I am not speaking in praise of myself, except perhaps in a negative way, which is not much to one's credit. Though I may tell you, sir, that I have not unfrequently been called a radical, and a radical is a personage. What I am endeavoring to express is that I have feelings, and that I should prefer rather to be happy than miserable. There is nothing unreasonable in that, I hope."
As he paused for a reply, Mr. Loveday, somewhat mystified, said: "No, there is nothing unreasonable in such a desire."
"That much being admitted," continued Kingsley, "I repeat my request that your daughter's heart should decide for you, as you would allow it to decide for you if you supposed me to be a poor man. And this sends me flying off again. My father is a rich man; I am nothing but what he makes me. If he were to turn me off, my entire worldly wealth would consist of an inconsiderable sum of six hundred pounds, the whole of which would be swallowed up in paying my debts. Give me credit for frankness, sir."
"I do. Your frankness convinces me that for your own sake, as well as for my daughter's, it is best that you and she should not meet again."
"But she expects me, sir, and in your company. I would wager that she has prepared breakfast for me-- There, sir, don't turn impatiently away; it is the fault of my temperament that I can be light and serious in a breath, that I can mean much and seem to mean little. This I promise. If you will allow me to accompany you to the caravan, where your daughter is waiting for us, I will abide by your decision, to be arrived at within five short minutes after we are together, as to whether I shall remain to breakfast or bid you farewell. Come, sir, I can't speak fairer."
There was an irresistible ingenuousness in Kingsley's voice and manner, and Mr. Loveday led the way to the caravan. Breakfast was laid, and Nansie, busy within the dwelling-house on wheels, cried out in the cheerfullest of voices:
"Is that you, father?"
"Yes, Nansie," said Mr. Loveday.
"And Kingsley?"
"Yes, Nansie," said the young man. "Never mind the teapot. Come out at once; I have only five minutes' grace."