'I'm not going to answer such nonsense as that seriously,' said Mabel; 'perhaps I shouldn't: most likely not, I think.'
'Then he has consented?'
'Of course he has, Wilfred.'
'My darling,' he said, drawing her closer to him, 'now that I know you are mine, I shall not feel unhappy any more!'
'Why, Wilfred, how gravely you speak, and how solemn you look. You are not a bit like your usual bright self this morning. What is the matter with you?'
'It's too bad of me to be out of sorts this morning, my pet, when I ought to be so happy; but I really can't help it. You must forgive me, Queen Mab.'
'But what is it makes you so, Wilfred, dear? Do tell me. You know you always do tell me your troubles; and I have more right to hear them now than ever. Besides, I can't bear being kept in the dark about things, especially when they concern you.'
'Oh, it's nothing very interesting or very new; only another row with the governor.'
'What about?'
'Nothing but a recapitulation of the old grievances; the same thing over again that we've been quarrelling about for I don't know how long—as to what a fool I've been to become an artist, instead of entering that detestable counting-house.'