“The word of a gentleman that you will always love Catherine? You must be a very fine gentleman to be sure of that.” “The word of a gentleman that I am not mercenary; that my affection for Miss Sloper is as pure and disinterested a sentiment as was ever lodged in a human breast! I care no more for her fortune than for the ashes in that grate.” “I take note—I take note,” said the Doctor. “But having done so, I turn to our category again. Even with that solemn vow on your lips, you take your place in it. There is nothing against you but an accident, if you will; but with my thirty years’ medical practice, I have seen that accidents may have far-reaching consequences.” Morris smoothed his hat—it was already remarkably glossy—and continued to display a self-control which, as the Doctor was obliged to admit, was extremely creditable to him. But his disappointment was evidently keen. “Is there nothing I can do to make you believe in me?” “If there were I should be sorry to suggest it, for—don’t you see?—I don’t want to believe in you!” said the Doctor, smiling. “I would go and dig in the fields.” “That would be foolish.” “I will take the first work that offers, to-morrow.” “Do so by all means—but for your own sake, not for mine.” “I see; you think I am an idler!” Morris exclaimed, a little too much in the tone of a man who has made a discovery. But he saw his error immediately, and blushed. “It doesn’t matter what I think, when once I have told you I don’t think of you as a son-in-law.” But Morris persisted. “You think I would squander her money.” The Doctor smiled. “It doesn’t matter, as I say; but I plead guilty to that.” “That’s because I spent my own, I suppose,” said Morris. “I frankly confess that. I have been wild. I have been foolish. I will tell you every crazy thing I ever did, if you like. There were some great follies among the number—I have never concealed that. But I have sown my wild oats. Isn’t there some proverb about a reformed rake? I was not a rake, but I assure you I have reformed. It is better to have amused oneself for a while and have done with it. Your daughter would never care for a milksop; and I will take the liberty of saying that you would like one quite as little. Besides, between my money and hers there is a great difference. I spent my own; it was because it was my own that I spent it. And I made no debts; when it was gone I stopped. I don’t owe a penny in the world.” “Allow me to inquire what you are living on now—though I admit,” the Doctor added, “that the question, on my part, is inconsistent.” “I am living on the remnants of my property,” said Morris Townsend. “Thank you!” the Doctor gravely replied. Yes, certainly, Morris’s self-control was laudable. “Even admitting I attach an undue importance to Miss Sloper’s fortune,” he went on, “would not that be in itself an assurance that I should take much care of it?”