“Strong?” cried Morris. “I would rather you should think them weak.”
“Oh, nothing about my father is weak!” said the girl.
Morris turned away, walking to the window, where he stood looking out. “You are terribly afraid of him!” he remarked at last.
She felt no impulse to deny it, because she had no shame in it; for if it was no honour to herself, at least it was an honour to him. “I suppose I must be,” she said simply.
“Then you don’t love me—not as I love you. If you fear your father more than you love me, then your love is not what I hoped it was.”
“Ah, my friend!” she said, going to him.
“Do I fear anything?” he demanded, turning round on her. “For your sake what am I not ready to face?”
“You are noble—you are brave!” she answered, stopping short at a distance that was almost respectful.
“Small good it does me, if you are so timid.”
“I don’t think that I am—really,” said Catherine.