“If she has, so much the better,” continued Glyddyr, smoking calmly, and evidently thoroughly enjoying his cigar. “A lady with a private purse of her own no doubt occupies a more happy and independent position than one who appeals to her husband for all she wants. I am sorry that our conversation has taken this turn, Mr Gartram,” he added stiffly.
“I’m not, Glyddyr. It has shown you up in another light. Well, what do you want me to say?”
“To say, sir?” cried the young man eagerly.
“Yes. There, I don’t think I need say anything. Yes, I do. I don’t like the idea of Claude marrying any one, but nature is nature. I shall be carried off some day by a fit, I suppose, and when I am, I believe—slave driver as I am, and oppressor of the poor, as they call me, for making Danmouth a prosperous place, and paying thousands a year in wages—I should rest more comfortably if I knew my child was married to the man she loved.”
“Mr Gartram.”
“I haven’t done, Glyddyr.”
There was a pause, during which the old man seemed to look his visitor through and through. Then he held out his hand with a quick, sharp movement.
“Yes,” he said; “I like you, my lad: I always did. You think too much of sport; but you’ll weary of that, and your whole thoughts will be of the best and truest girl that ever lived.”
“Then you consent, Mr Gartram?” cried Glyddyr with animation.
“No: I consent to nothing. You’ve got to win her first. I give you my leave, though, to win if you can; and if you do marry her—well, I daresay I can afford to buy her outfit—trousseau—what you may call it.”