Mowbray straightened himself in his chair.
"So you, too, mean to make terms, when you know I cannot refuse!"
"No," Harding answered shortly, "I make none. If you had insisted on Miss Mowbray's marrying Brand, I might have had something to say. All I ask is that you give her a free choice; if she uses it to take somebody else, I won't complain."
"That is remarkably generous," Mowbray conceded.
"We'll let that go. Perhaps my request is something of a shock, but I want you to hear me out. If things go well with me this year, I can give my wife every comfort you have at Allenwood, and she can lead the life she likes best—except that I can't leave the prairie. Then there is nothing that need separate your daughter from you. Many of her friends are mine; they'll welcome me into the settlement. I did not go to them; they came to me."
Mowbray knew this was true. His own younger son firmly believed in Harding. Kenwyne, who had fastidious tastes, was his friend. There were others Mowbray could think of, and all were men of character and standing.
"May I ask how long you have entertained these views about my daughter?"
"Since the first time I saw her, and that was very soon after I came to this neighborhood. I knew as soon as she spoke to me that I would never marry any one else."
Mowbray studied him. He had not suspected Harding of romantic tendencies, but the man was obviously serious.
"Has she any reason to suspect your feelings?" he asked.