What is to prevent it?"
"His ideas, his reasons," said Catherine. "They are so--so terribly
strong." She trembled with the recollection of them yet.
"Strong?" cried Morris. "I would rather you should think them weak."
"Oh, nothing about my father is weak!" said the girl.
Morris turned away, walking to the window, where he stood looking
out. "You are terribly afraid of him!" he remarked at last.
She felt no impulse to deny it, because she had no shame in it; for
if it was no honour to herself, at least it was an honour to him. "I
suppose I must be," she said simply.
"Then you don't love me--not as I love you. If you fear your father
more than you love me, then your love is not what I hoped it was."
"Ah, my friend!" she said, going to him.
"Do _I_ fear anything?" he demanded, turning round on her. "For your
sake what am I not ready to face?"
"You are noble--you are brave!" she answered, stopping short at a
distance that was almost respectful.
"Small good it does me, if you are so timid."
"I don't think that I am--REALLY," said Catherine.
"I don't know what you mean by 'really.' It is really enough to make
us miserable."
"I should be strong enough to wait--to wait a long time."
"And suppose after a long time your father should hate me worse than
ever?"
"He wouldn't--he couldn't!"
"He would be touched by my fidelity? Is that what you mean? If he
is so easily touched, then why should you be afraid of him?"
This was much to the point, and Catherine was struck by it.
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