“Pray, is Miss Folliard at home, sir?”
“Again I'm forgotten,” thought the squire. “Ah, what an affectionate son-in-law he'd make! What a tender husband for Helen! Why, hang the fellow, he has a heart for nobody, but himself. She is at home, Sir Robert, but the truth is, I don't think it would become me, as a father anxious for the happiness of his child, and that child, an only one, to sacrifice her happiness—the happiness of her whole life—to wealth or ambition. You know she herself entertains a strong prejudice—no, that's not the word—”
“I beg your pardon, sir; that is the word; her distaste to me is a prejudice, and nothing else.”
“No, Sir Robert; it is not the word. Antipathy is the word. Now I tell you, once for all, that I will not force my child.”
“This change, Mr. Folliard,” observed the baronet, “is somewhat of the suddenest. Has any thing occurred on my part to occasion it?”
“Perhaps I may have other views for her, Sir Robert.”
“That may be; but is such conduct either fair or honorable towards me, Mr. Folliard? Have I got a rival, and if so, who is he?”
“Oh, I wouldn't tell you that for the world.”
“And why not, pray?”
“Because,” replied the squire, “if you found out who he was, you'd be hanged for cannibalism.”