"Then I will marry him, papa."
She took her hand from the Rector's shoulder, and walked away from him to the uncurtained window, against which she stood with her back to her father, looking out into the grey obscurity.
I have said that Hubert Arundel was not a very clever or far–seeing person; but he vaguely felt that this was not exactly the way in which a brilliant offer of marriage should be accepted by a young lady who was entirely fancy–free, and he had an uncomfortable apprehension that there was something hidden under his daughter's quiet manner.
"But, my dear Olivia," he said nervously, "you must not for a moment suppose that I would force you into this marriage, if it is in any way repugnant to yourself. You––you may have formed some prior attachment––or, there may be somebody who loves you, and has loved you longer than Mr. Marchmont, who––"
His daughter turned upon him sharply as he rambled on.
"Somebody who loves me!" she echoed. "What have you ever seen that should make you think any one loved me?"
The harshness of her tone jarred upon Mr. Arundel, and made him still more nervous.
"My love, I beg your pardon, I have seen nothing. I––"
"Nobody loves me, or has ever loved me,––but you," resumed Olivia, taking no heed of her father's feeble interruption. "I am not the sort of woman to be loved; I feel and know that. I have an aquiline nose, and a clear skin, and dark eyes, and people call me handsome; but nobody loves me, or ever will, so long as I live."
"But Mr. Marchmont, my dear,––surely he loves and admires you?" remonstrated the Rector.