Philip arrived home about one o’clock on the Monday, and, after their nursery dinner, Arthur made his way to the study, and soon found himself in the dread presence—for what presence is more dread (most people would rather face a chief-justice with the gout)—of the man whose daughter he was about to ask in marriage.
Philip, whom he found seated by a tray, the contents of which he seemed in no humour to touch, received him with his customary politeness, saying, with a smile, that he hoped he had not come to tell him that he was sick of the place and its inhabitants, and was going away.
“Far from it, Mr. Caresfoot, I come to speak to you on a very different subject.”
Philip glanced up with a quick look of expectant curiosity, but said nothing.
“In short,” said Arthur, desperately, “I come to ask you to sanction my engagement to Angela.”
A pause—a very awkward pause—ensued.
“You are, then, engaged to my daughter?”
“Subject to your consent, I am.”
Then came another pause.
“You will understand me, Heigham, when I say that you take me rather by surprise in this business. Your acquaintance with her has been short.”