"You call it pride; I call it honesty. I won't take the hands of fellows I despise, men who forge, men who write lies about me to your father, and lies about your father to me. That's a sort of sacrifice you've no right to ask. I simply can't make it. If Bloxsome were to come here I am afraid I should kick him. Ask any other sacrifice, and I'll make it; my English home, my seat in Parliament, I'm afraid I'd give them all up, though I know it would be wrong, if you wished it. As to money, I don't want your father to give you a penny. I'm not rich, but I have enough to support a wife. All I want is that you should care enough for me to give up those fellows for my sake."
She looked at him for a moment, steadily. Then she said, with a flickering smile,
"No. I am not going to give up all independence of action yet. But here is a boutonnière for you," and she gave him the rose she had just gathered.
Nevertheless the young lady sent off three telegrams that afternoon, couched in the same terms:
"Sorry cannot see you on Sunday. Shall be engaged all day."
Three weeks slid by; weeks all too brief for four out of the group of friends, two of whom had nearly reached the full of happiness, while two were in the crescent stage, nearing, day by day, the second quarter.
Clare Planter's conquest was a slow one, if indeed that may be called a conquest which is not as yet proclaimed. Mr. Planter's sudden decision to leave Monterey—unshaken, for once, by his wife's and daughter's supplications—was due, no doubt, to some indication on Clare's part that the Englishman was beginning to be not absolutely indifferent to her. As long as she encouraged a number of other admirers her father was not alarmed. But when he learned that, on one pretext or another, she had put some of them off on three successive Sundays (the only day they could get away from business), when he saw that the Englishman had undisputed possession of the field, he grew uneasy. He spoke with great frankness to Mrs. Frampton.
"I am going to take my daughter right home. My wife doesn't like it, but I think it wiser. And I have refused to allow her and Clare to go to Europe this year. It is about the first time I ever refused them anything. You and I, Mrs. Frampton, are of one mind—I don't want my daughter to marry an Englishman; you don't want your nephew to marry an American."
"Pardon me, Mr. Planter," she replied, with a boldness begotten of the occasion. "I have no objection to my nephew marrying an American; and if I had twenty objections they would be of no avail with him on that subject. I see that now. He has some regard for my opinion, but where his feelings are concerned he consults no one. They are very deeply concerned, I am afraid, in this case. He is not rich, and I should like him to marry a girl with some secured fortune. That is the only objection to his marrying your daughter that I can conceive upon our side, though it would not weigh with him for a moment. I understand that business men in America, as a rule, do not make settlements on their daughters when they marry?"
"That is so. But—" Here he paused, then went on. "We need not enter upon that matter. I trust Sir Mordaunt's feelings are not as deeply engaged as you imagine. I trust separation for a year will effectually cure him, and prevent this folly going any further. Clare knows my views on the subject; she has never admitted that she likes your nephew more than as a friend. Now, then, with a little tact, a little firmness, it seems to me the thing may be nipped in the bud."