"I will have neither one nor the other," said Anthony. "I do not want to marry—when I do I will please myself."
"You will consult my wishes and my plans," said the father. "But there, I have said enough. Turn the thing over in your head; the girl likes you, small blame to her—you are the bravest cockrell in the district, and can crow loud enough to make all others keep silence."
"I will never take Julian," again said Anthony. "It is of no use, father, urging this; she has been thrown at me, and has thrown herself at me. I may have prattled and laughed with her, but I never cared much for her. I shall never take but the maid that pleases me; I give you assurance of this, father."
"Well, well, that will suffice. I was too early in speaking. Take your time; in the end you will see through my spectacles. Now I am busy; you may go."
Anthony left. He was irritated at his father for endeavoring to force him to marry Julian Crymes, irritated with him for his depreciatory tone when speaking of the Malvines, irritated with him for not allowing his sister to go to Willsworthy.
At the present moment he felt very reluctant to go to Kilworthy and see Julian, to return to her the pair of gloves. After she had been thrust on him and he had declined to think of her, he felt out of humour for a visit to her; he had lost command of himself, in his annoyance, and might speak with scant courtesy.
"If I could light on Fox I would give him the gloves," said Anthony, as he mounted the horse.
He rode out on a down near Hall, and there drew rein, uncertain whether he would go direct to Kilworthy or not.
"No," said he, "I will ride first to Peter Tavy and see that the head-post of Master Malvine be secure. I will give the sexton something to have the foot scarfed, that it may not fall over or give way. After that I can go to Kilworthy." So he turned his horse's head in the direction of the inn, the Hare and Hounds at Cudliptown, where he would fall into the road to Peter Tavy.
In his irritation at what his father had proposed, he forgot about the bunch of flowers in his hat. He left them there disregarded, fretting in his mind at his father's attempt to force him to a union that was distasteful to him. He liked Julian well enough; she was a handsome girl. He had admired her, he had played the lover—played without serious intent, for his heart had not been touched—but now he entertained an aversion from her, an aversion that was not old; it dated but from the previous day, but it had ripened whilst his father spoke to him of her.