“Yes. I’m going to tell him not to come any more.”
Katharine went behind the table, so that she faced her mother and looked directly into her eyes. For several seconds neither spoke.
“I hope you won’t do anything so rude,” said Mrs. Lauderdale at last, without avoiding the gaze that met hers. “We all like Mr. Wingfield very much.”
“I daresay. I’m not finding fault with him, nor his looks, nor his manners, nor anything.”
“Well, then—I don’t see—”
“Oh, yes, you do, mother,—forgive my contradicting you,—you know very well that he wants to marry me, and that you want me to marry him. But I don’t mean to. So I shall tell him, as nicely as I can, to give up the idea, and to make his visits to you, and not to me.”
“But, Katharine, dear—nobody wishes to force you to marry him. We don’t live in the Middle Ages, you know.”
“There’s a resemblance,” answered Katharine, bitterly.
“Katharine! How can you say anything so unjust!”
“Because it’s true, mother. I’m not blind, you know, and I’m not perfectly insensible. I see, and I can feel. You don’t seem to think it’s possible to hurt me—and I don’t think you mean to hurt me, as papa does.”