"Have you told Dorothy?" I asked.
"No," he replied, "I have not exactly told her. I had a talk with her a few days ago on the subject, though the earl and I had not, at that time, entirely agreed upon the terms, and I did not know that we should agree. But I told her of the pending negotiations, because I wished to prepare her for the signing of the contract; and also, by gad, Malcolm, I wanted to make the girl understand at the outset that I will have no trifling with my commands in this matter. I made that feature of the case very plain, you may rest assured. She understands me fully, and although at first she was a little inclined to fight, she soon—she soon—well, she knuckled under gracefully when she found she must."
"Did she consent to the marriage?" I asked, well knowing that even if she had consented in words, she had no thought of doing so in deed.
"Y-e-s," returned Sir George, hesitatingly.
"I congratulate you," I replied.
"I shall grieve to lose Doll," the old man slowly continued with perceptible signs of emotion. "I shall grieve to lose my girl, but I am anxious to have the wedding over. You see, Malcolm, of late I have noticed signs of wilfulness in Doll that can be more easily handled by a husband than by a father. Marriage and children anchor a woman, you know. In truth, I have opened my eyes to the fact that Doll is growing dangerous. I'gad, the other day I thought she was a child, but suddenly I learn she is a woman. I had not before noticed the change. Beauty and wilfulness, such as the girl has of late developed, are powers not to be underestimated by wise men. There is hell in them, Malcolm, I tell you there is hell in them." Sir George meditatively snuffed the candle with his fingers and continued: "If a horse once learns that he can kick—sell him. Only yesterday, as I said, Doll was a child, and now, by Jove, she is a full-blown woman, and I catch myself standing in awe of her and calling her Dorothy. Yes, damme, standing in awe of my own child! That will never do, you know. What has wrought the change? And, after all, what is the change? I can't define it, but there has been a great one."
He was in a revery and spoke more to himself than to me. "Yesterday she was my child—she was a child, and now—and now—she is—she is—Why the devil didn't you take her, Malcolm?" cried the old man, awakening. "But there, never mind; that is all past and gone, and the future Earl of Derby will be a great match for her."
"Do you know the future Earl of Derby?" I asked. "Have you ever seen him?"
"No," Sir George replied. "I hear he is rather wild and uncouth, but—"
"My dear cousin," said I, interrupting him, "he is a vulgar, drunken clown, whose associates have always been stable boys, tavern maids, and those who are worse than either."