Her father’s displeasure had cost the girl, as we know, a great deal of deep-welling sorrow—sorrow of the purest and most generous kind, without a touch of resentment or rancour; but for the first time, after he had dismissed with such contemptuous brevity her apology for being a charge upon him, there was a spark of anger in her grief. She had felt his contempt; it had scorched her; that speech about her bad taste made her ears burn for three days. During this period she was less considerate; she had an idea—a rather vague one, but it was agreeable to her sense of injury—that now she was absolved from penance, and might do what she chose. She chose to write to Morris Townsend to meet her in the Square and take her to walk about the town. If she were going to Europe out of respect to her father, she might at least give herself this satisfaction. She felt in every way at present more free and more resolute; there was a force that urged her. Now at last, completely and unreservedly, her passion possessed her. Morris met her at last, and they took a long walk. She told him immediately what had happened—that her father wished to take her away. It would be for six months, to Europe; she would do absolutely what Morris should think best. She hoped inexpressibly that he would think it best she should stay at home. It was some time before he said what he thought: he asked, as they walked along, a great many questions. There was one that especially struck her; it seemed so incongruous. “Should you like to see all those celebrated things over there?” “Oh no, Morris!” said Catherine, quite deprecatingly. “Gracious Heaven, what a dull woman!” Morris exclaimed to himself. “He thinks I will forget you,” said Catherine: “that all these things will drive you out of my mind.” “Well, my dear, perhaps they will!” “Please don’t say that,” Catherine answered gently, as they walked along. “Poor father will be disappointed.” Morris gave a little laugh. “Yes, I verily believe that your poor father will be disappointed! But you will have seen Europe,” he added humorously. “What a take-in!” “I don’t care for seeing Europe,” Catherine said. “You ought to care, my dear. And it may mollify your father.” Catherine, conscious of her obstinacy, expected little of this, and could not rid herself of the idea that in going abroad and yet remaining firm, she should play her father a trick. “Don’t you think it would be a kind of deception?” she asked. “Doesn’t he want to deceive you?” cried Morris. “It will serve him right! I really think you had better go.” “And not be married for so long?”