“The situation, sir, does not demand a Cicero:  proceed,” said Dr. Middleton, balked in his approving nods at the right true things delivered.

“Judicially, I am bold to say, though it may appear a presumption in one suffering acutely, I abhor a breach of faith.”

Dr. Middleton brought his nod down low upon the phrase he had anticipated.  “And I,” said he, “personally, and presently, abhor a breach of faith.  Judicially?  Judicially to examine, judicially to condemn:  but does the judicial mind detest?  I think, sir, we are not on the bench when we say that we abhor:  we have unseated ourselves.  Yet our abhorrence of bad conduct is very certain.  You would signify, impersonally:  which suffices for this exposition of your feelings.”

He peered at the gentleman under his brows, and resumed: 

“She has had it, Willoughby; she has had it in plain Saxon and in uncompromising Olympian.  There is, I conceive, no necessity to revert to it.”

“Pardon me, sir, but I am still unforgiven.”

“You must babble out the rest between you.  I am about as much at home as a turkey with a pair of pigeons.”

“Leave us, father,” said Clara.

“First join our hands, and let me give you that title, sir.”

“Reach the good man your hand, my girl; forthright, from the shoulder, like a brave boxer.  Humour a lover.  He asks for his own.”

“It is more than I can do, father.”

“How, it is more than you can do?  You are engaged to him, a plighted woman.”

“I do not wish to marry.”

“The apology is inadequate.”

“I am unworthy. . .”

“Chatter! chatter!”

“I beg him to release me.”

“Lunacy!”

“I have no love to give him.”

“Have you gone back to your cradle, Clara Middleton?”

“Oh, leave us, dear father!”

“My offence, Clara, my offence!  What is it?  Will you only name it?”

“Father, will you leave us?  We can better speak together . . .”

“We have spoken, Clara, how often!” Willoughby resumed, “with what result?—­that you loved me, that you have ceased to love me:  that your heart was mine, that you have withdrawn it, plucked it from me:  that you request me to consent to a sacrifice involving my reputation, my life.  And what have I done?  I am the same, unchangeable.  I loved and love you:  my heart was yours, and is, and will be yours forever.  You are my affianced—­that is, my wife.  What have I done?”

“It is indeed useless,” Clara sighed.

“Not useless, my girl, that you should inform this gentleman, your affianced husband, of the ground of the objection you conceived against him.”

“I cannot say.”

“Do you know?”

“If I could name it, I could hope to overcome it.”

Dr. Middleton addressed Sir Willoughby.