“I’m much obliged to you for letting me know your plans, but it means time and money. We could send you to a theological college, when you’re . . . How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” said Bennett, with a hot blush.
“Nineteen. When you’re twenty-one. The money is the difficulty. I have very little.”
“My uncles are both rich men. I’m sure they would help if you would speak for me, and tell them what you think.”
“Oh! do!” said Annette.
Bennett darted a look of gratitude at her.
“What I think!” Francis smiled. “You haven’t given me much time yet. I like you. I like your enthusiasm. I’ve no doubt you would make a good clergyman, but it is a very poorly paid profession . . .”
“That doesn’t matter at all,” cried Bennett. “It’s the work that matters.” And he rushed off into a long tirade which Annette thought very splendid, and Francis punctuated with thin blue puffs of smoke from his pipe.
“On the whole,” said Francis, reflectively. “On the whole I think it would be better when I meet your father to say nothing about your relationship with my daughter.”