It all depends on your will."
"Is it to give him up?" said Catherine.
"Yes, it is to give him up."
And he held her still, with the same tenderness, looking into her
face and resting his eyes on her averted eyes. There was a long
silence; she wished he would release her.
"You are happier than I, father," she said, at last.
"I have no doubt you are unhappy just now. But it is better to be
unhappy for three months and get over it, than for many years and
never get over it."
"Yes, if that were so," said Catherine.
"It would be so; I am sure of that." She answered nothing, and he
went on. "Have you no faith in my wisdom, in my tenderness, in my
solicitude for your future?"
"Oh, father!" murmured the girl.
"Don't you suppose that I know something of men: their vices, their
follies, their falsities?"
She detached herself, and turned upon him. "He is not vicious--he is
not false!"
Her father kept looking at her with his sharp, pure eye. "You make
nothing of my judgement, then?"
"I can't believe that!"
"I don't ask you to believe it, but to take it on trust."
Catherine was far from saying to herself that this was an ingenious
sophism; but she met the appeal none the less squarely. "What has he
done--what do you know?"
"He has never done anything--he is a selfish idler."
"Oh, father, don't abuse him!" she exclaimed pleadingly.
"I don't mean to abuse him; it would be a great mistake.
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