The meal was almost over when Mr. Corrie spoke again—this time to his niece.
“Well, ha’ ye thought over what I said to ye last night?” he abruptly demanded.
Kitty was not unprepared for the question, and she answered calmly enough that she had not further considered the matter—which was not, perhaps, quite accurate—because she had assumed that it was closed.
“Then ye’d better think it over now, for Mr. Symington’s pretty sure to come again to-night.”
“If he comes, I can only tell him what I told you—of course, I’ll do it politely. . . . Uncle John, why are you so anxious for me to marry that man? Tell me straight—do you and Aunt Rachel want to get rid of me?”
Corrie hesitated. He dared not say, as he was tempted to say, that he could not afford to give her a home any longer, because, for one thing, the girl was as well aware as himself that he kept the allowance made by the post-office for her services as assistant—an assistant, by the way, who did practically all the work.
“Not so long ago you thought very little of Mr. Symington,” she pursued, “and I’ve often heard Aunt Rachel call him anything but a nice man. Besides, he must be nearly forty.”
“That’s enough,” said Corrie sharply. “Your aunt and me know him better than we used to. We want you to marry him because we see ’twould be a good thing for you. Same time, he’s come into a heap of money.”
“Ay,” said Miss Corrie, “he has that! He’s talking o’ giving up the farm and setting up house in the city—Glasgow, maybe. That would suit ye fine, Kitty.”
“I’m sorry I can’t do what you want,” the girl said slowly. “I’d rather be dead than married to him. He—”