‘And I have reason to believe that she returns your attachment?’ said Mr. Millbank.
‘I believe she deigns not to disregard it,’ said Coningsby, his white cheek becoming scarlet.
‘It is then a mutual attachment, which, if cherished, must produce mutual unhappiness,’ said Mr. Millbank.
‘I would fain believe the reverse,’ said Coningsby.
‘Why?’ inquired Mr. Millbank.
‘Because I believe she possesses every charm, quality, and virtue, that can bless man; and because, though I can make her no equivalent return, I have a heart, if I know myself, that would struggle to deserve her.’
‘I know you to be a man of sense; I believe you to be a man of honour,’ replied Mr. Millbank. ‘As the first, you must feel that an union between you and my daughter is impossible; what then should be your duty as a man of correct principle is obvious.’
‘I could conceive that our union might be attended with difficulties,’ said Coningsby, in a somewhat deprecating tone.
‘Sir, it is impossible,’ repeated Mr. Millbank, interrupting him, though not with harshness; ‘that is to say, there is no conceivable marriage which could be effected at greater sacrifices, and which would occasion greater misery.’
‘The sacrifices are more apparent to me than the misery,’ said Coningsby, ‘and even they may be imaginary.’