“I hope he will. There is every reason why he should and absolutely none why he shouldn't. Of course he'll approve; he's sensible.”
“Yes, but he may have plans of his own for you, and your marrying an Eastern girl may not be one of them. You have often told me how prejudiced he is against the East and Eastern people. He may disapprove strongly.”
Crawford squared his shoulders. There was no hesitation or doubt in his next speech.
“If he does it will make no difference,” he declared. “I care a whole lot for Dad and I'd do anything on earth for him—anything but the one thing, that is: I won't give you up—provided you care for me—for him or for anyone else. That's final.”
He certainly looked as if it were. But Mary only shook her head. In the new thoughts and new imaginings which had come to her during the past winter there had been a vague foreshadowing of a possible situation somewhat like this. She had her answer ready.
“Oh, no, it isn't,” she said. “You are his son, his only child, Crawford. He cares so much for you. You have often told me that, and—and I know he must. And you and he have been so happy together. Do you think I would be the cause of breaking that relationship?”
He waved the question aside and asked one of his own.
“Do you love me, Mary?” he asked.
“You mustn't ask me, Crawford. Write your father. Tell him everything. Will you?”
“Yes, I will. I should have done it, anyway. If I go home, and I suppose I must, I shall tell him; it will be better than writing. But I want your answer before I go. Won't you give it to me?”