“Bunkum! ‘Priest of this parish’—you’ll be calling yourself Pope next. If you can’t talk sense you can clear out.”
George was already at the door, and the hand he laid upon it trembled violently.
“Don’t go!”—it was Mary who cried after him—“there’s no need for you to upset yourself about my marriage. I haven’t the slightest thought of getting married.”
But George had gone out.
§ 12
There was an uneasy shuffle of relief throughout the room. The situation, though still painful, had been cleared of an exasperating side-issue. But at the same time Mary was uncomfortably aware that she had changed the focus of her father’s anger from her brother to herself.
“What do you mean?” he rapped out, when the sound of George’s protesting retreat had died away.
“I mean that you and George have been arguing for nothing. As I told you some time ago, I haven’t the slightest intention of marrying Charles.”
“And why not, may I ask?”
“Because I’ve had enough of marriage.”