“And now, my beloved daughter,” said Mr. Montenero, “I may express to you all the esteem, all the affection, all the fulness of approbation I feel for your choice.”
“And I, Miss Montenero!—Let me speak, pray, Mrs. Harrington,” said my father.
“By and by,” whispered my mother; “not yet, my love.”
“Ay, put the ring on her finger—that’s right, boy!” cried my father, as my mother drew him back.
Berenice accepted of the ring in the most gracious, the most graceful manner.
“I accept this with pleasure,” said she; “I shall prize it more than ever Lady de Brantefield valued her ring: as a token of goodness and gratitude, it will be more precious to me than any jewel could be; and it will ever be dear to me,” added she, with a softened voice, turning to her father, “very dear, as a memorial of the circumstances which have removed the only obstacle to our happiness.”
“Our,” repeated my father: “noble girl! Above all affectation. Boy, a truce with your transports! She is my own daughter—I must have a kiss.”
“For shame, my dear,” said my mother; “you make Miss Montenero blush!”
“Blushes are very becoming—I always thought yours so, Mrs. Harrington—that’s the reason I have given you occasion to blush for me so often. Now you may take me out of the room, madam. I have some discretion, though you think you have it all to yourself,” said my father.
I have some discretion, too, hereditary or acquired. I am aware that the moment two lovers cease to be miserable, they begin to be tiresome; their best friends and the generous public are satisfied to hear as little as possible concerning their prosperous loves.