Indeed, she even thought it wrong--in the sense of being
inconsiderate--to attempt to act upon his feelings at all; her part
was to effect some gentle, gradual change in his intellectual
perception of poor Morris's character. But the means of effecting
such a change were at present shrouded in mystery, and she felt
miserably helpless and hopeless. She had exhausted all arguments,
all replies. Her father might have pitied her, and in fact he did
so; but he was sure he was right.
"There is one thing you can tell Mr. Townsend when you see him
again," he said: "that if you marry without my consent, I don't
leave you a farthing of money. That will interest him more than
anything else you can tell him."
"That would be very right," Catherine answered. "I ought not in that
case to have a farthing of your money."
"My dear child," the Doctor observed, laughing, "your simplicity is
touching. Make that remark, in that tone, and with that expression
of countenance, to Mr. Townsend, and take a note of his answer. It
won't be polite--it will, express irritation; and I shall be glad of
that, as it will put me in the right; unless, indeed--which is
perfectly possible--you should like him the better for being rude to
you."
"He will never be rude to me," said Catherine gently.
"Tell him what I say, all the same."
She looked at her father, and her quiet eyes filled with tears.
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