"What do you mean to do when you get home?" he asked, while she stood
there with her candle in her hand.
"Do you mean about Mr. Townsend?"
"About Mr. Townsend."
"We shall probably marry."
The Doctor took several turns again while she waited. "Do you hear
from him as much as ever?"
"Yes; twice a month," said Catherine promptly.
"And does he always talk about marriage?"
"Oh yes! That is, he talks about other things too, but he always
says something about that."
"I am glad to hear he varies his subjects; his letters might
otherwise be monotonous."
"He writes beautifully," said Catherine, who was very glad of a
chance to say it.
"They always write beautifully. However, in a given case that
doesn't diminish the merit. So, as soon as you arrive, you are going
off with him?"
This seemed a rather gross way of putting it, and something that
there was of dignity in Catherine resented it. "I cannot tell you
till we arrive," she said.
"That's reasonable enough," her father answered. "That's all I ask
of you--that you DO tell me, that you give me definite notice. When
a poor man is to lose his only child, he likes to have an inkling of
it beforehand."
"Oh, father, you will not lose me!" Catherine said, spilling her
candle-wax.
"Three days before will do," he went on, "if you are in a position to
be positive then. He ought to be very thankful to me, do you know.
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