“Why did not I spare you the pain?” repeated he. “And do you think that the trial cost me, cost us no pain?” said Mr. Montenero. “The time may come when, as my son, you may perhaps learn from Berenice—”
“The time is come!—this moment!” cried my father; “for you see the poor fellow is burning with impatience—he would not be my son if he were not.”
“That is true, indeed!” said my mother.
“True—very likely,” said Mr. Montenero, calmly holding me fast. “But, impetuous sir, recollect that once before you were too sudden for Berenice: after you had saved my life, you rushed in with the joyful news, and—”
“Oh! no rushing, for mercy’s sake, Harrington!” said my mother: “some consideration for Miss Montenero’s nerves!”
“Nerves! nonsense, my dear,” said my father: “what woman’s nerves were ever the worse for seeing her lover at her feet? I move—and I am sure of one honourable gentleman to second my motion—I move that we all adjourn, forthwith, to Mr. Montenero’s.”
“This evening, perhaps, Miss Montenero would allow us,” said my mother.
“This instant,” said Mr. Montenero, “if you will do me the honour, Mrs. Harrington.”
“The carriage,” said my mother, ringing.
“The carriage, directly,” cried my father to the servant as he entered.