“No,” she said, “don’t tell me that; I am sure they are not so silly, your mother, above all.”
“Do you call that silly? Well, I think she is silly then, dear old mother!” cried the young man, with his voice a little unsteady. Walter felt to the bottom of his heart what he had said to his unresponsive companion, that in loving her he loved them all so much better. The faculty of loving seemed to have expanded in him. He had not an unkind feeling to any one in the world, except perhaps to that fellow—no, not even to him, poor beggar, who was losing her. To lose her was such a misfortune as made even that cad an object of pity to gods and men.
“And how is all this to come about?” she said, after a pause. “It’s easy talking about what’s to happen in summer, and coming home to Penton, and all that sort of thing—but in the meantime there are a few things to be done. How is it all to come about?”
“Our marriage?” he said.
“Well, yes, I suppose that’s the first step,” she answered.
“That is the easiest thing in the world,” said Wat. “I shall go to town and arrange all the preliminaries. Why, what did you tell me that fellow wanted to do? Do you think I’m less fit to manage it than he is?”
“Well,” she said, “for one thing, he’s older than you are; he has more freedom than you have. He knows his way about the world. Will they let you go to London by yourself, for one thing?” she asked, with again that mocking sound in her voice.
Walter caught her arm to his side with a kind of fond fury, and cried, “Emmy!” in an indignant voice.
“I shouldn’t if I were your people,” she continued, with a laugh; “I should feel sure you would be up to some mischief. But, supposing you get off from them, and get to London, what will you do then?”
“I shall do—whatever is the right thing to do. I am not so foolish as you think me. There is a license to be got, I know—a special license.”