"You won't forget the tickets for the opera, will you, Mr. Warburton?" were Miriam's whispered words as they stood for a moment at the street door, she having gone down stairs to let him out.
"Well, kitten, and what do you think of your new-found brother?" asked Byrne, as soon as Miriam got back into the room.
"I like him. It would be impossible to help liking him," said Miriam.
"Your reasons--if you have any?"
"Ladies are not supposed to give reasons. I like him because I like him. For one thing, he is not commonplace. There is an air of cleverness about him. You would not feel a bit surprised if at any moment he were to tell you that he was the author of the last celebrated poem, or the painter of the last great picture, or that he had been down the crater of Vesuvius, or had invented a new balloon that would take you half-way to the moon. By the time you have been in Mr. Warburton's society ten minutes, you say to yourself: 'Here's a man who has brains.'"
"Rather different from James Baron, Esq., eh?"
"Now, papa!" said Miriam, in a hurt tone. Then she turned from him and went to the window, and drew aside the curtain, and peered out into the darkness. "I thought it was understood between us that on this point there was no longer to be any contention. I thought you thoroughly understood, papa, that nothing could alter my determination."
"Oh, you have made me understand all that, plainly enough," said Byrne. "But when I think how mad and foolish you are--how determined you are to throw away your one great chance in life, I can't help----"
"Pray spare me, papa! Why cover ground that you and I have trodden so often already?"
"To think," said Byrne, indignantly, "of my daughter demeaning herself to marry a common, underpaid clerk!"