“No, sir. I want—I came to ask you—why the truth is, father, that I want to be married, and beg you to tell me yes, when I ask you if I may.”
“Want to be married!” cried the doctor, laughing immoderately. “Now I protest, of all the fooleries, that is the last I should have thought of the child’s asking for! Why, see here, dear—how long is it since you were romping about here, in short dresses, and short hair, and all that? Want to be married!” and he gazed at her with an incredulous smile.
“I am nearly seventeen,” observed Clara, with considerable dignity.
“Oh, indeed! I beg your pardon, madam!” exclaimed her father, in a tone of profound deference, at the same time seating her on his knee. “You want to be married. Now, what for, my little lady?”
“Why, I think, without it, neither I nor one other can ever be happy.”
“And who might that other individual be?”
“I dare not tell you, for you are prejudiced against him, and will refuse me.”
“Prejudiced, am I? What, do you opine, has prejudiced me?”
“I think you adopted the opinions of another before seeing him, and so were not prepared to judge justly.”
“Is it this Brentford, you mean?”