"I want you to be my wife very soon," he said. "I
must have you. And if you're as old-fashioned as the cure thinks, you
won't say no to me when I tell you that. Shall he marry us?"
"Oh--that would mean it must be _dreadfully_ soon!"
"Is there a 'dreadfully?' But--there's one thing, dearest, that I almost
forgot. I must write to my father. Not that anything he could say would
make any difference now; only I want him to love you, and our marriage
to bring him happiness, not pain, even in the thought of it before he
sees you. My brother Angelo has married lately, and he didn't let our
father know till just before the thing was done. Perhaps it was not his
fault. I can't tell as to that: there must have been a strong reason.
But our father was deeply hurt; and it would be even worse with me, for
he makes it no secret that I'm his favourite son. I believe I'm more
like my mother than Angelo is. She was an Irish-American girl, and my
father adored her: though sometimes I wonder if he knew how to show his
love. Anyhow, she died young, and he's been almost a recluse ever since.
I'll write him at once--and I may even go to see him, though I can
hardly bear to think of leaving you long enough for that. Still, it
needn't be for more than three or four days and nights. I could go and
come back in that time. I'll see! But if I do go, it must be to tell him
we're to be married at once, from my brother's house."
"Your brother's house?" Mary repeated.
"Yes.
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