“My dear uncle,” I cried, interrupting him, “I appreciate your generosity, I am overcome, at least with one view of your liberal intentions—but it is too late.”
“Too late! what do you mean?”
“I am already in love.”
“Come, come! you are joking.”
“I am already deeply in love.”
“Deeply in love!”
“Yes—with your daughter.”
“Eh!” he exclaimed, giving a little jump in his chair, “you don’t mean—what?—in love with Conny?”
I nodded.
“No, no!” he cried, with great impetuosity; “that’s impossible—that’s out of the question. You can’t marry her. You’re not suited for each other. Consider, my dear boy, how could you support her?”