It seemed to her, later, in looking back upon all this, that for days afterwards not a word had been exchanged between them. The scene had been a strange one, but it had not permanently affected her feeling towards her father, for it was natural, after all, that he should occasionally make a scene of some kind, and he had let her alone for six months. The strangest part of it was that he had said he was not a good man; Catherine wondered a great deal what he had meant by that. The statement failed to appeal to her credence, and it was not grateful to any resentment that she entertained. Even in the utmost bitterness that she might feel, it would give her no satisfaction to think him less complete. Such a saying as that was a part of his great subtlety—men so clever as he might say anything and mean anything. And as to his being hard, that surely, in a man, was a virtue. He let her alone for six months more—six months during which she accommodated herself without a protest to the extension of their tour. But he spoke again at the end of this time; it was at the very last, the night before they embarked for New York, in the hotel at Liverpool. They had been dining together in a great dim, musty sitting-room; and then the cloth had been removed, and the Doctor walked slowly up and down. Catherine at last took her candle to go to bed, but her father motioned her to stay. “What do you mean to do when you get home?” he asked, while she stood there with her candle in her hand. “Do you mean about Mr. Townsend?” “About Mr. Townsend.” “We shall probably marry.” The Doctor took several turns again while she waited. “Do you hear from him as much as ever?” “Yes; twice a month,” said Catherine promptly. “And does he always talk about marriage?” “Oh yes! That is, he talks about other things too, but he always says something about that.” “I am glad to hear he varies his subjects; his letters might otherwise be monotonous.” “He writes beautifully,” said Catherine, who was very glad of a chance to say it. “They always write beautifully. However, in a given case that doesn’t diminish the merit. So, as soon as you arrive, you are going off with him?” This seemed a rather gross way of putting it, and something that there was of dignity in Catherine resented it. “I cannot tell you till we arrive,” she said. “That’s reasonable enough,” her father answered. “That’s all I ask of you—that you _do_ tell me, that you give me definite notice. When a poor man is to lose his only child, he likes to have an inkling of it beforehand.” “Oh, father, you will not lose me!” Catherine said, spilling her candle-wax.