That afternoon, Arthur had a conversation with his betrothed that, partaking of a business nature in the beginning, ended rather oddly.
“I must speak to your father when he comes back to-morrow, dear,” he began.
“My father! Oh yes, I had forgotten about that;” and she looked a little anxious.
“Fortunately, I am fairly well off, so I see no cause why he should object.”
“Well, I think that he will be rather glad to get rid of Pigott and myself. You know that he is not very fond of me.”
“That is strange want of taste on his part.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Everybody does not see me with your eyes, Arthur.”
“Because they have not the chance. All the world would love you, if it knew you. But, seriously, I think that he can hardly object, or he would not have allowed us to be thrown so much together; for, in nine cases out of ten, that sort of thing has only one result.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that to import a young fellow into the house, and throw him solely into a daughter’s company, is very apt to bring about—well, what has been brought about.”