"I trust not," replied Wyvil, glancing tenderly at Amabel. "If I should be so fortunate as to gain his consent, have I yours?"
"It is too soon to ask that question," she rejoined, blushing deeply. "And now, sir, you must go, indeed, you must. You distress my mother."
"If I do not distress you, I will stay," resumed Wyvil, with an imploring look.
"You do distress me," she answered, averting her gaze.
"Nay, then, I must tear myself away," he rejoined. "I shall return shortly, and trust to find your father less flinty-hearted than he is represented."
He would have clasped Amabel in his arms, and perhaps snatched a kiss, if her mother had not rushed between them.
"No more familiarities, sir," she cried angrily; "no court manners here. If you look to wed my daughter, you must conduct yourself more decorously; but I can tell you, you have no chance—none whatever."
"Time will show," replied Wyvil, audaciously. "You had better give her to me quietly, and save me the trouble of carrying her off,—for have her I will."
"Mercy on us!" cried Mrs. Bloundel, in accents of alarm; "now his wicked intentions are out."
"Fear nothing, mother," observed Amabel, coldly. "He will scarcely carry me off without my own consent; and I am not likely to sacrifice myself for one who holds me in such light esteem."