“Dare not!” echoed her father, elevating his eyebrows with wonder, almost with terror. “Your words are a mystery to me—your conduct inexplicable! What is the meaning of it all?”
“I cannot—oh! I cannot receive Mr. Vane’s addresses!” she exclaimed, almost frantically.
“Flora, this is but childish absurdity; unless you have some grave complaint to make to me against Mr. Vane,” said her father, with a slight sternness of manner. “Has he done aught to give you offence?”
“No,” she replied, in a faint tone.
“Is there aught in his appearance or manner to create aversion in your breast?” he inquired.
“It is not that,” she returned—“it is not that!” She paused.
“What is it?” inquired her father. “Rise, Flora; your position does not become the relation in which we stand to each other. Be seated; be composed and calm. Tell me where lies your objection to Mr. Vane?”
She rose up slowly, and stood before her father. She pressed her hand upon her throat to subdue its spasmodic heavings.
“I do not love him!” she ejaculated, almost inaudibly.
“I can well believe that,” returned her father, gently. “Your acquaintance has been short. People don’t, out of romances, and in the actual world, fall in love with each other the instant they meet. It takes time and observation, besides many little nameless charms, to raise love. At present you have not—you cannot have anything to say against the personal appearance of Mr. Lester Vane; he is gentlemanly in his manners, honourable in his sentiments, and in his disposition amiable and kind. I judge so from what I have seen. These are endearing qualities; and when you are thrown more into each other’s society—when he yet more softens his manner in his wooing, and consults your wishes and tastes, makes your will his, and shows to you that he has no greater earthly bliss than that afforded him in seeing you happy; when you come to observe this, and to appreciate it—then, then you will begin to love him.”