“Since when have you resolved to make Florence your wife?” her aunt demanded. “Since when have these important plans been arranged?”
“I knew and loved her before I went to India,” he answered evasively.
“Humph!” said Mrs. Blunden dryly. “If you have been contented to wait patiently all these years, I certainly think you can exercise sufficient forbearance to let a suitable trousseau be prepared for your bride, and proper settlements drawn up. What say you, Florence? Have you pledged yourself to have no voice in the matter, that you sit there so silent?”
“I have already pleaded with Mr. Aylwinne for more time,” was the murmured reply.
He looked vexed and inclined to be angry as he retorted:
“You certainly did; but when I reminded you that this was my first request, I thought you had sufficient trust in me to withdraw your opposition.”
“Nay!” said Mrs. Blunden positively. “I will not give you my child—for I consider her in that light—if she is to be hurried out of the house secretly, as though there was something in your choice of which you were ashamed. If you have loved Florence so long, why did you not give me a hint of your intentions sooner?”
Mr. Aylwinne was silent; and Florence, who had raised her head eagerly to listen for his explanation, was disappointed.
“Well, good people,” cried Aunt Margaret brusquely, as she gathered up her gloves and handkerchief, “it appears that I am not to know more than you choose to tell me; and perhaps my wishes will be set at naught, after all.”
“No, dear aunt—no—no!” cried her niece, running to her, and throwing her arms around her neck. “Not by me; nor will Mr. Aylwinne be unreasonable. You shall not have to accuse me of disobedience to your commands, even for his sake. I will be guided by you, Aunt Margaret.”