I cannot give a precise idea of that ejaculation. It was a strange mixture of pleasantry and consternation.
"He is by profession a poet,—and a philosopher. His writings are highly thought of among literary people, and he is an intimate friend of Aunt Agnes," I said quietly.
"What answer did you give him?" asked my father presently, with a weary air. He leaned his head on his hand, and listened intently and anxiously.
"I told him I would think the matter over," I replied.
"He is not the husband I would have chosen for you, Virginia," he said, after a silence. "But you must suit yourself. Now that you recall him to me, I know who this Mr. Spence is. I have seen his name in the newspapers, and a few weeks ago I remember he delivered a lecture before the Thursday Evening Club. It was a visionary, unpractical address, I thought. Several members spoke to me of it as such. But there were one or two enthusiasts—as there are everywhere—who extolled it as a marvel of originality and cleverness. Are you sure of his habits?"
"His habits ought to be good, for he is the advocate of the theory of Moderation. It is to that he devotes the greater part of his time. Yes, father, I am sure of them."
"I remember now,—Moderation. That was what he talked about. He is one of your so-called reformers. He gets hold of an idea and tries to fit the world to it. And you say you wish to marry him, Virginia?"
"I have not said so. I don't know."
"If you take my advice, you will not. I know nothing further of him than you have told me. The better philosopher a man is, the worse husband he is likely to make. Has he anything to live upon?"
"Yes; enough to support us comfortably, I believe. In fact, he does not wish me to take any money from you."