‘Sir,’ says he, with dignity, ‘if this is a jest——’
‘Not a jest such as you think,’ breaks in Crosby quickly; ‘though I hope our life together’—with a quick glance back at Susan, who still declines to show herself—‘will have a good deal of laughter in it. What I really want you to know’—gently—‘is that I have asked Susan to marry me, and she has said “Yes,” if’—with charming courtesy—‘you will give your consent.’
Mr. Barry rises from his chair. If he could be paler than he was a moment since, he is certainly so now.
‘Do you mean to tell me that you want’—he points at the only part of the abashed Susan that he can see—‘that you want that child for your wife?’
There is a slight pause. It is long enough for Susan to cast an eloquent glance at Crosby. ‘I told you so,’ is the gist of it.
‘She is nineteen,’ says Crosby; ‘and she says that she——’
Here he comes to grief; it seems impossible to so true a lover to say out aloud that Susan has confessed her love for him. He turns round.
‘I really think, Susan, it is your turn now,’ whispers he. ‘You might say something.’
Susan gives him an indignant glance. Hadn’t she told him how it would be? But dignity sweeps her into the breach.
‘It—it is quite true, papa,’ says she, faltering, trembling.