all clearly before her, to make up her mind what she should do if, as she feared, her father should tell her that he disapproved of Morris Townsend. But all that she could see with any vividness was that it was terribly strange that anyone should disapprove of him; that there must in that case be some mistake, some mystery, which in a little while would be set at rest. She put off deciding and choosing; before the vision of a conflict with her father she dropped her eyes and sat motionless, holding her breath and waiting. It made her heart beat, it was intensely painful. When Morris kissed her and said these things—that also made her heart beat; but this was worse, and it frightened her. Nevertheless, to-day, when the young man spoke of settling something, taking a line, she felt that it was the truth, and she answered very simply and without hesitating. “We must do our duty,” she said; “we must speak to my father. I will do it to-night; you must do it to-morrow.” “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.” “Mercenary?”
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