"Well, my dear--I know you will be surprised, and indeed I was astonished when he mentioned the subject to me. The best news that Mr. Streightley could hear, Katie, would be that you had consented to become his wife--" and at the last words he raised his head and looked at her. Katharine started up, and exclaimed: "Me! I!--O papa, what are you saying?" Her father approached her, put one arm round her waist, and took her hand in his. He seldom caressed his daughter, and she instinctively shrunk from the encircling arm, as if a danger threatened her; but he held her firmly, and she stood still and listened. "I daresay you can't understand it, Kate, but it's quite true for all that; and you know you are a doosid sensible girl, and doosid lucky too, I can tell you." Mr. Guyon was recovering himself. "Now look here. You've always lived like a lady--a long way better than many ladies, by Jove--and you don't know what difficulties and poverty mean; and it will be your own fault if you do know now, or ever. You've no fortune, Kate; and a girl who hasn't can't choose for herself--that's a fact. Men can't and won't marry without money; and though you don't know much of the world, except the ball, supper, promenade, and park side of it, Katie, I daresay you know enough of it not to deny _that_. You don't know much of Streightley; and I daresay he's not the sort of fellow you would fancy if you _did_ know ever so much of him. But then, you see, the sort of fellow you would fancy can't marry you, because you have no money, or won't, which comes to the same thing,--at all events doesn't--" Here Katharine released herself, and sat down. Still she turned her white face and attentive eyes steadfastly upon him, and showed no sign of emotion, save the occasional twitching of the hand which she laid upon the table. Immensely reassured by her quietness, Mr. Guyon went on, quite cheerily: