“Fiddlededee! A girl of your age doesn’t know what love is.”
“Harry doesn’t know me. He talks nonsense to me. He thinks I’m too stupid to be spoken to of serious things. To him I’m just the same as any other girl he meets at parties. For wife he wants a slave, a plaything when he’s tired or bored. I want to be a man’s companion. I want to work with my husband.”
“I’m surprised and shocked to hear you have such ideas,” answered the Canon, emphatically. “I thought you were more modest.”
“You don’t understand, father,” cried Winnie, with despair in her voice. “Don’t you see that I have a life of my own, and I must live it in my own way?”
“Rubbish! The new woman business was exploded ten years ago; you’re hopelessly behind the times, my poor girl. A woman’s place is in her own house. You’re full of ideas which are not only silly but middle-class. They fill me with disgust. You’re ridiculous, Winnie.”
Canon Spratte, who only spoke the truth when he said the whole matter appeared to him suburban and vulgar, walked up and down impatiently. He sought for acid expressions of his disdain.
“You’re making me dreadfully unhappy, papa,” said Winnie. “You’ve never been unkind to me before. Think that all my happiness depends on this. You don’t wish to ruin my whole life.”
“Don’t be absurd,” cried Canon Spratte, unmoved by this entreaty. “I refuse to hear anything about it. I cannot make you marry Lord Wroxham. Far be it from me to attempt to force your affections. I confess it’s a great disappointment; however, I accept it as the will of Providence and I shall do my best to bear it. But I’m quite sure it’s not the will of Providence that you should marry Mr. Bertram Railing, and I utterly refuse my consent to his shameful, grotesque proposal. The man’s a scoundrel; he’s nothing better than a fortune-hunter.”
“That’s not true, father,” said Winnie, flushing with anger.
“Winnie, how dare you say that!”