“Yes, uncle, dear, I know,” she replied slowly.
“Well, your father has now come over to my side, and he gives me his consent to see you, to win from you—”
“Hush, uncle—dear uncle,” said Glynne softly. “I know you love me—dearly, as if I were your own child.”
“I do, I do indeed,” he cried.
“Then pray spare me all these painful words.”
“Plain words to save you pain in the future,” he said tenderly.
“It is too late, uncle. I told my father that. It is too late.”
“No, no, my darling, it is not too late,” cried the major excitedly. “You are afraid of the talk and scandal. Bah! let them talk and scandalise till they get tired. What is it to us? Look here; we’ll start for the Continent to-morrow, and stay away till this business is forgotten. A nine days’ wonder, my child. There, there, you consent. By George, we’ll be off to-night—now. I’ll go and order the carriage at once. It will be round by the time you have got a few things together in a bag.”
“Stop, uncle, dear uncle.”
“No, no; your father will go with us, too.”