"Why not, papa? If you say it shall not be so, it shall not. I will do as you bid me." Then he put out his hand and caressed her, stroking down her hair. "But I think you ought to tell me why it must not be,--as I do love him." "He is a foreigner." "But is he? And why should not a foreigner be as good as an Englishman? His name is foreign, but he talks English and lives as an Englishman." "He has no relatives, no family, no belongings. He is what we call an adventurer. Marriage, my dear, is a most serious thing." "Yes, papa, I know that." "One is bound to be very careful. How can I give you to a man I know nothing about,--an adventurer? What would they say in Herefordshire?" "I don't know why they should say anything, but if they did I shouldn't much care." "I should, my dear. I should care very much. One is bound to think of one's family. Suppose it should turn out afterwards that he was--disreputable!" "You may say that of any man, papa." "But when a man has connexions, a father and mother, or uncles and aunts, people that everybody knows about, then there is some guarantee of security. Did you ever hear this man speak of his father?" "I don't know that I ever did." "Or his mother,--or his family? Don't you think that is suspicious?" "I will ask him, papa, if you wish." "No, I would have you ask him nothing. I would not wish that there should be opportunity for such asking. If there has been intimacy between you, such information should have come naturally,--as a thing of course. You have made him no promise?" "Oh no, papa." "Nor spoken to him--of your regard for him?" "Never;--not a word. Nor he to me,--except in such words as one understands even though they say nothing." "I wish he had never seen you." "Is he a bad man, papa?" "Who knows? I cannot tell. He may be ever so bad. How is one to know whether a man be bad or good when one knows nothing about him?" At this point the father got up and walked about the room. "The long and the short of it is that you must not see him any more." "Did you tell him so?" "Yes;--well; I don't know whether I said exactly that, but I told him that the whole thing must come to an end. And it must. Luckily it seems that nothing has been said on either side." "But, papa--; is there to be no reason?" "Haven't I given reasons? I will not have my daughter encourage an adventurer,--a man of whom nobody knows anything. That is reason sufficient." "He has a business, and he lives with gentlemen. He is Everett's friend. He is well educated;--oh, so much better than most men that one meets. And he is clever. Papa, I wish you knew him better than you do." "I do not want to know him better." "Is not that prejudice, papa?" "My dear Emily," said Mr. Wharton, striving to wax into anger that he might be firm against her, "I don't think that it becomes you to ask your father such a question as that. You ought to believe that it is the chief object of my life to do the best I can for my children."