James Cromwell lost no time next morning in waiting upon Mr. Manton. He was in that state when suspense is intolerable, and he wanted to have his fate decided at once. Accordingly, soon after breakfast, he was introduced into the presence of Clara's father, whom he found alone. The young lady, considerately foreseeing the visit, had gone out for a walk.
Mr. Manton was sitting indolently in a rocking-chair, reading.
"Good-morning, Mr. Cromwell," he said. "Take a chair, if you please, and excuse my not rising. I am not young and strong like you, but an invalid."
It may be remarked that Mr. Manton's invalidism proceeded as much from constitutional indolence as from confirmed ill-health, and furnished him an excuse of which he was always ready to avail himself.
"Oh, certainly," said Cromwell, doing as directed. "I have come to see you, Mr. Manton," he proceeded, "on important business."
"Indeed!" said his companion, whose cue was to assume entire ignorance until informed of the nature of his errand.
"You have a daughter," proceeded the young man, nervously.
"Yes, and an excellent girl she is," said Mr. Manton, warmly.
I am sorry to say that this was not Mr. Manton's real opinion. He and Clara, in fact, used to quarrel pretty often in private, and he had more than once styled her a cross-grained vixen and termagant, and used other terms equally endearing. He felt rather rejoiced at the prospect of having her taken off his hands, though, like Clara, he thought it prudent that his prospective son-in-law should be well supplied with the gifts of fortune, that there might be no necessity of contributing to their support from his own income. Of course, it was his policy to speak well of Clara to her lover, and not allude to the little defects of temper of which he knew rather more than he desired.
"Yes," said James Cromwell, fervently, "your daughter is charming, Mr. Manton."