“He has expressed no disapproval, Mr. Sherwin.”

“You don’t say so!”

“I have not given him an opportunity.  My meeting with your daughter has been kept a profound secret from him, and from every member of my family; and a secret it must remain.  I speak from my intimate knowledge of my father, when I say that I hardly know of any means that he would not be capable of employing to frustrate the purpose of this visit, if I had mentioned it to him.  He has been the kindest and best of fathers to me; but I firmly believe, that if I waited for his consent, no entreaties of mine, or of any one belonging to me, would induce him to give his sanction to the marriage I have come to you to propose.”

“Bless my soul! this is carrying things rather far, though—­dependent as you are on him, and all that.  Why, what on earth can we do—­eh?”

“We must keep both the courtship and the marriage secret.”

“Secret!  Good gracious, I don’t at all see my way—­”

“Yes, secret—­a profound secret among ourselves, until I can divulge my marriage to my father, with the best chance of—­”

“But I tell you, Sir, I can’t see my way through it at all.  Chance! what chance would there be, after what you have told me?”

“There might be many chances.  For instance, when the marriage was solemnised, I might introduce your daughter to my father’s notice—­without disclosing who she was—­and leave her, gradually and unsuspectedly, to win his affection and respect (as with her beauty, elegance, and amiability, she could not fail to do), while I waited until the occasion was ripe for confessing everything.  Then if I said to him, ’This young lady, who has so interested and delighted you, is my wife;’ do you think, with that powerful argument in my favour, he could fail to give us his pardon?  If, on the other hand, I could only say, ‘This young lady is about to become my wife,’ his prejudices would assuredly induce him to recall his most favourable impressions, and refuse his consent.  In short, Mr. Sherwin, before marriage, it would be impossible to move him—­after marriage, when opposition could no longer be of any avail, it would be quite a different thing:  we might be sure of producing, sooner or later, the most favourable results.  This is why it would be absolutely necessary to keep our union secret at first.”

I wondered then—­I have since wondered more—­how it was that I contrived to speak thus, so smoothly and so unhesitatingly, when my conscience was giving the lie all the while to every word I uttered.

“Yes, yes; I see—­oh, yes, I see!” said Mr. Sherwin, rattling a bunch of keys in his pocket, with an expression of considerable perplexity; “but this is a ticklish business, you know—­a very queer and ticklish business indeed.  To have a gentleman of your birth and breeding for a son-in-law, is of course—­but then there is the money question.  Suppose you failed with your father after all—­my money is out in my speculations—­I can do nothing.  Upon my word, you have placed me in a position that I never was placed in before.”