“What!” cried Mrs. Mavick, in a tone of incredulous surprise.
“I was afraid you would think me very presumptuous.”
“Presumptuous! Why, she is a child. Do you know what you are talking about?”
“My mother married at eighteen,” said Philip, gently.
“That is an interesting piece of information, but I don't see its bearing. Will you tell me, Mr. Burnett, what nonsense you have got into your head?”
“I want,” and Philip spoke very gently—“I want, Mrs. Mavick, permission to see your daughter.”
“Ah! I thought in Rivervale, Mr. Burnett, that you were a gentleman. You presume upon my invitation to this house, in an underhand way, to—What right have you?”
Mrs. Mavick was so beside herself that she could hardly speak. The lines in her face deepened into wrinkles and scowls. There was something malevolent and mean in it. Philip was astonished at the transformation. And she looked old and ugly in her passion.
“You!” she repeated.
“It is only this, Mrs. Mavick,” and Philip spoke calmly, though his blood was boiling at her insulting manner—“it is only this—I love your daughter.”