"James, is it true that you and Clara are engaged?"
"No, sir; that—is—not exactly what you might call engaged. We would like to be." Mr. Hardy smiled in spite of himself; and James added in a quickened tone: "We would like to be, with your consent, sir."
Mr. Hardy walked on thoughtfully, and then glanced at the young man at his side. He was six feet tall, not very handsome, as Bessie had frankly said, but he had a good face, a steady, clear blue eye, and a resolute air, as of one who was willing to work hard to get what he wanted. Mr. Hardy could not help contrasting him with his own prematurely broken down son George, and he groaned inwardly as he thought of the foolish pride that would bar the doors of his family to a young man like James Caxton simply because he was poor and because his father had won in a contested election in which the two older men were candidates for the same office.
It did not take long to think all this. Then he said, looking again at the young man with a businesslike look:
"Supposing you had my permission, what are your prospects for supporting my daughter? She has always had everything she wanted. What could you give her?"
The question might have seemed cold and businesslike. The tone was thoughtful and serious.
A light flashed into James' eyes, but he said simply: "I am in a position to make a thousand dollars a year next spring. I earn something extra with my pen at home."
Mr. Hardy did not reply to this. He said: "Do you know what a wilful, quick-tempered girl Clara is?"
"I have known her from a little child, Mr. Hardy. I feel as if I know her about as well as you do."
"Perhaps you know her better than I do; I do not know my child as I should."