"If I were you, I'd prefer my son-in-law to respect me."
Mr. Walkingshaw positively jumped.
"You mean to—er—"
"Marry her, whether you like it or not! I'm in love—and she loves me! There's not the least use trying to explain to you what love means. It would be like trying to explain a cigar to a chicken. You're too respectable. You can't understand."
The tirade ceased abruptly, and the young man smiled again upon the petrified Writer to the Signet.
"I am going back to London to-night. Just give me a year or two, Mr. Walkingshaw. I'll make an income for her."
Mr. Walkingshaw regained his senses.
"You will never be admitted inside this house in your life again, sir. You will never marry my daughter; and mind you, you needn't flatter yourself she will correspond with you or anything of that kind. My children have been decently brought up. What I say is done; and what I say shan't be done, is not done!"
He had recovered his formidableness now, and the artist's face fell. For a moment he looked gloomily at his father-in-law elect, and then he turned for the door.
"We shall see," he said.