Mr Cheviott smiled.
“You are a regular little John Bull, child,” he said; “still I understand your feeling. There is something to be said, however, in favour of the French way of arranging such things, where the parents or guardians of a girl are sensible people, that is to say. Perhaps a union of both ways would be perfection.”
“How do you mean?” asked Alys.
“Supposing a case where a girl had known a man nearly all her life, and had got to care for him unconsciously almost, and that at the same time he was the very man of all others whom, for every reason, her parents, or whoever stood in their place, wished her to marry, would not such a case be pretty near perfection?”
“Rather too perfect,” said Alys. “The chances are that the hero would spoil it all by not wanting to marry her.”
Mr Cheviott looked annoyed.
“Don’t be flippant, Alys,” he said; “of course that part of it I was taking for granted.”
“I didn’t mean to be flippant,” said Alys, penitently; “I never want to vex you, Laurence. I’d do anything to please you. I’m not sure that I would not even marry to please you, if you want to try an experiment of the French way.”
She looked up in her brother’s face with a smile, and he could not help returning it.
“If you promise never to marry to displease me, I shall be satisfied,” he answered. “But, after all, it’s a difficult question. I have known some English marriages turn out quite—ah, surely more miserable than ever a French one could.”