“Your father,” she said—“still your father.”
“Even so, Lotte; yet he, too, should remember that I am his son,” exclaimed Mark, with some excitement, “his son, Lotte, not his serf, his slave, his dog. He should recollect, Lotte, that my happiness is of as much importance to me as pride of position to him; and he should not overlook the fact that I don’t care a—that I don’t care that”—he snapped his fingers—“to be great and grande if I am to be unhappy in my elevation.”
“I am to understand by this,” said Lotte, very calmly, though sadly, “that he has refused to give his consent to receive me into his family, as your wife—you will not trifle with my feelings, Mark, on this point, I am sure.”
Mark remained silent.
She laid her hand upon his arm softly.
“Answer me, Mark!” she said, gently.
He looked into her soft appealing eyes, he passed his arm round her waist, and pressed her to his bosom.
“I will do or say aught you wish me, Lotte, but do not ask me to wound your feelings,” he said, in a low, earnest tone.
“Nay, it will pain me so much not to know the truth, for you know, Mark, I may conjecture much that was never said,” she responded; adding, “tell me, did he not decline to receive me as his daughter-in-law.”
Mark set his teeth.