Old Wilton chuckled.
“A wife, Mark, eh?” he said, in a light, jesting tone, simply because it was the most improbable thing that occurred to him.
“Yes,” said Mark, with emphasis, surprised that his father should come to the point of their anticipated discussion without being, so far as he knew, prepared for it.
At first Wilton laughed, for he accepted the answer as one returned in the same spirit as that in which he put the question.
Then it struck him that there was a remarkable and decided emphasis in the tone of the affirmative which Mark had uttered. He gave an uneasy glance at his son’s features. He felt a cold perspiration steal slowly over him. His heart suddenly leaped, jumped, and ached so painfully that he stopped. What was coming?
Mark walked on thoughtfully; presently he missed his father from his side.
“Why do you pause?” he turned round and said; “you are not already tired—shall we go back?”
Old Wilton waved his hand impatiently—
“I am not tired,” he said, sharply, but rather huskily. “We will go on—but—a-hem—but, I quite presume that you understand my question to you, Mark, was put jestingly?”
“Jestingly!” echoed Mark. “Ah! but, father, I am very desirous that you should understand I replied in serious earnestness.”