“Far more so than you think,” said Mr Braine, warmly. “She is a good daughter—a dear girl, whom I love as well as if she were my own child. I shall never forget the way in which she devoted herself to my boy when he came out here, still weak, and a perfect skeleton, and it is my tender affection for the girl that makes me speak as I do.”
“Then, then—oh, I am very sorry—very sorry indeed,” cried Murray. “I wish to goodness I had never come. It is nonsense, madness, impossible. I am nearly forty—that is over four and thirty. I am a confirmed bachelor, and I would not be so idiotically conceited as to imagine, sir, that the young lady could have even a passing fancy for such a dry-as-dust student as myself. I tell you honestly, sir, I have never once spoken to the lady but as a gentleman, a slight friend of her father, would.”
“My dear Murray, we have only known you a few weeks, but that has been long enough to make us esteem and trust—”
“Exactly; and it is preposterous.”
“That means, you could never care for the lady well enough to ask her to be your wife?”
“Never—certainly—never—impossible—that is—at least—no, no, no, quite impossible. I am a bookworm, a naturalist, and I shall never marry.”
“I am sorry,” said Mr Braine, thoughtfully, “for, to be frank, I rather thought there was a growing liking on your part for Amy.”
“A mistake, sir—a mistake, quite,” said Murray, warmly.
“And it would have been a happy circumstance for us now, at this rather troublesome time.”
“Eh? Troublesome? What do you mean? Is anything more the matter?”