'We must do our duty,' she said; 'we must speak to my father. I will do it to-night; you must do it tomorrow.' 'It is very good of you to do it first,' Morris answered. 'The young man - the happy lover - generally does that. But just as you please.'

It pleased Catherine to think that she should be brave for his sake, and in her satisfaction she even gave a little smile. 'Women have more tact,' she said; 'they ought to do it first. They are more conciliating; they can persuade better.'

'You will need all your powers of persuasion. But, after all,' Morris added, 'you are irresistible.'

'Please don't speak that way - and promise me this: To-morrow, when you talk with father, you will be very gentle and respectful.'

'As much so as possible,' Morris promised. 'It won't be much use, but I shall try. I certainly would rather have you easily than have to fight for you.'

'Don't talk about fighting; we shall not fight.'

'Ah, we must be prepared,' Morris rejoined; 'you especially, because for you it must come hardest. Do you know the first thing your father will say to you?'

'No, Morris; please tell me.'

'He will tell you I am mercenary .'


'It's a big word, but it means a low thing. It means that I am after your money.'

'Oh!' murmured Catherine, softly.

The exclamation was so deprecating and touching that Morris indulged in another little demonstration of affection. 'But he will be sure to say it,' he added.

'It will be easy to be prepared for that,' Catherine said. 'I shall simply say that he is mistaken - that other men may be that way, but that you are not.'

'You must make a great point of that, for it will be his own great point.'

Catherine looked at her lover a minute, and then she said, 'I shall persuade him. But I am glad we shall be rich,' she added.

Morris turned away, looking into the crown of his hat. 'No, it's a misfortune,' he said at last. 'It is from that our difficulty will come.'

'Well, if it is the worst misfortune, we are not so unhappy. Many people would not think it so bad. I will persuade him, and after that we shall be very glad we have money.'

Morris Townsend listened to this robust logic in silence. 'I will leave my defence to you; it's a charge that a man has to stoop to defend himself from.

Catherine on her side was silent for awhile; she was looking at him while he looked, with a good deal of fixedness, out of the window. 'Morris,' she said, abruptly, 'are you very sure you love me?'

He turned round, and in a moment he was bending over her. 'My own dearest, can you doubt it?'

'I have only known it five days,' she said; 'but now it seems to me as if I could never do without it.'

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