He looked so honestly solicitous to know what the difficulty was, that Fred’s irritation was stayed. An embarrassment of another kind took possession of him.
“Mr. Ogilvie,” he said, “I don’t know why I should have come to you, for indeed I have no authority. I have come to ask you for—what I am sure you will not give, unless I have another consent first. It is about—your daughter that I want to speak.”
Mr. Ogilvie opened his eyes a little and raised himself in his seat.
“Ay!” he said, “and what will it be about Effie?”
He had observed nothing, seeing his mind was but little occupied with Effie. To be sure, his wife had worried him with talk about this young fellow, but he had long accustomed himself to hear a great deal that his wife said without paying any attention. He had an understanding that there could be only one way in which Fred Dirom could have anything to say to him about his daughter: but still, though he had heard a good deal of talk on the subject, it was a surprise.
“Sir,” said Fred, collecting himself, “I have loved her since the first time I saw her. I want to know whether I have your permission to speak to Miss Ogilvie—to tell her——”
Poor Fred was very truly and sincerely in love. It was horrible to him to have to discourse on the subject and speak these words which he should have breathed into Effie’s ear to this dull old gentleman. So strange a travesty of the scene which he had so often tenderly figured to himself filled him with confusion, and took from him all power of expressing himself.
“This is very important, Mr. Dirom,” said Effie’s father, straightening himself out.
“It is very important to me,” cried the young man; “all my hopes are involved in it, my happiness for life.”
“Yes, it’s very important,” said Mr. Ogilvie, “if I’m to take this, as I suppose, as a proposal of marriage to Effie. She is young, and you are but young for that responsibility; and you will understand, of course, that I would never force her inclinations.”