“I’m not at all ashamed of telling my own story,” said Jack, “but—”
“But there is Mr Stanforth coming out of the house, so if you mean to run away you had better make haste about it.”
Jack rose, but he paused a moment, and as Mr Stanforth came towards them, said bluntly,—
“Mr Stanforth, I want Cheriton to tell you about it first;” then deliberately walked away.
Poor Mr Stanforth, who had little expected such an ending to his tour with his favourite little daughter, was feeling himself in a worse scrape than the lovers, and though he had romance enough to sympathise with them, was disposed to be angry with Jack for his inconsiderate haste, and to feel that “What will your mother say?” was a more uncomfortable question to himself than to his daughter.
Cheriton, on his side, would have been very glad of a few minutes for reflection, but Mr Stanforth began at once,—
“I see I have not brought news to you.”
“No,” said Cherry. “Jack has been talking to me; I had no idea of such a thing. But, Mr Stanforth, there is no doubt that Jack is thoroughly in earnest,” as a half smile twinkled on the artist’s perplexed countenance.
“In earnest, yes; but what business has he to be in earnest? What would your father say to such a proceeding? What can he say at your brother’s age, and of people of whom he knows nothing, and of a connexion of which, knowing nothing, he probably would not approve?”
Cheriton blushed, knowing that this last assertion contained much truth.