“Godfrey, I wish to see you for a few moments,” the colonel said to his son when towards noon he found him in the library alone.
“Certainly, I wish to see you, too,” Godfrey replied, as he arose and followed his father to the little office in the rear of the house, where the colonel transacted his business.
Colonel Schuyler did not know exactly what he wished to say to his son, and after they were seated there ensued a moment’s silence, which Godfrey broke by saying:
“What is it, father? What do you want with me?”
“Oh, yes, sure. I—I—wish to speak of this affair,—your engagement, you know, and arrange about the marriage, and when it will take place. The sooner the better, I think, as I do not believe in long engagements.”
“But, father, I have not my profession yet,” Godfrey said, feeling again the cutting pain as he thought of being really tied to Alice, with no longer a right to think of that sweet face which had looked at him through the moonlight and made his heart throb so fast.
“Yes, I know; but you can finish your studies after marriage,” the colonel replied; and seeing Godfrey about to speak again, he continued: “I need not tell you how glad I am of this engagement, which I have hoped for so long. Alice is a fine girl,—a very fine girl; not as handsome, perhaps, as some,” he said, as he guessed what was in Godfrey’s mind, and thought, himself, of a rare type of beauty, which moved even him at times.
“No, Miss Creighton is not a beauty,—I should think not,” Godfrey interrupted, impatiently, whereupon the colonel brought his eyebrows together, and regarding his son curiously, went on:
“Such girls as Alice, I have often noticed, grow into fine-looking old ladies; so they have the advantage in one respect.”
“Yes; but who cares or thinks of a good-looking old wife!” Godfrey said, petulantly.