“You misunderstood me, I think, else how could you think of going?”
“Did you not say that our wedding had better be postponed? And does that not mean that it may never, never be?”
“Why should it mean that?”
“Because, how can we measure the duration of an anger so senseless? It might last years. No, Mercedes, I feel that you have the right to reject me. I shall be so very wretched without you, that I would beg and entreat, but—”
“Clarence, I do not reject you, and I have no right, no wish, to do so. Please do not say that.”
“Will you be mine—my wife—after all the ruffianly words my father has said?”
“Certainly. Why should I blame you?”
“My own, my sweet wife. Oh! how dearly I love you! The strength of my love makes my heart ache. Will you call me when you think you can consent to our wedding?”
“What do you mean by asking if I will call you?”
“I mean that if our marriage is to be postponed, I shall leave you, but shall be ready to obey your call, and I pray I may not wait for it a long time. And I say this, also, that if upon reflection you decide to cast me off, I shall not complain, because—because my father has lowered me. I am not the same Clarence I was two days ago. You cannot feel proud of me now.”