It was the first time his eyes had rested on her for a
week, which was fortunate, if that was to be their expression. "Why
not three times a day?" he asked. "What prevents your meeting as
often as you choose?"
She turned away a moment; there were tears in her eyes. Then she
said, "It is better once a week."
"I don't see how it is better. It is as bad as it can be. If you
flatter yourself that I care for little modifications of that sort,
you are very much mistaken. It is as wrong of you to see him once a
week as it would be to see him all day long. Not that it matters to
me, however."
Catherine tried to follow these words, but they seemed to lead
towards a vague horror from which she recoiled. "I think we shall
marry pretty soon," she repeated at last.
Her father gave her his dreadful look again, as if she were some one
else. "Why do you tell me that? It's no concern of mine."
"Oh, father!" she broke out, "don't you care, even if you do feel
so?"
"Not a button. Once you marry, it's quite the same to me when or
where or why you do it; and if you think to compound for your folly
by hoisting your flag in this way, you may spare yourself the
trouble."
With this he turned away. But the next day he spoke to her of his
own accord, and his manner was somewhat changed. "Shall you be
married within the next four or five months?" he asked.
"I don't know, father," said Catherine.
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