Henry hunted up Mr. Raby, and asked him bluntly whether he would like him to marry Jael Dence.
Raby made no reply for some time, and his features worked strangely.
“Has she consented to be your wife?”
“I have never asked her. But I will, if you wish it.”
“Wish it?”
“Why, sir, if you don't wish it, please forbid it, and let us say no more at all about it.”
“Excuse me,” said Raby, with his grandest air: “a gentleman may dislike a thing, yet not condescend to forbid it.”
“That is true, sir; and an ex-workman may appreciate his delicacy, and give the thing up at once. I will die a bachelor.”
“Henry, my boy, give me your hand—I'll tell you the truth. I love her myself. She is a pattern of all I admire in woman.”
“Uncle, I suspected this, to tell the truth. Well, if you love her—marry her.”