“I have no heart to give her.”

“Then you must at least give her your hand.  I myself proposed this arrangement, and your uncle’s pleasure and gratitude were of the most touching kind.  Further, if you will have the very truth, then know, that under no circumstances, will I sanction a marriage with Doctor Moran’s daughter.”

“You cannot possibly object to her, sir.  She is perfection itself.”

“I object to her in-toto.  I detest Doctor Moran, personally.  I know not why, nor care wherefore.  I detest him still more sincerely as a man of French extraction.  I was brought very much in contact with him for three years, and if we had not been in camp, and under arms, I would have challenged him a score of times.  He is the most offensive of men.  He brought his race prejudices continually to the front.  When Lafayette was wounded, with some of his bragging company, nothing would do but Doctor Moran must go with them to the hospital at Bethlehem; yes, and stay there, until the precious marquis was out of danger.  I’ll swear that he would not have done this for Washington—­he would have blustered about the poor fellows lying sick in camp.  Moran talks about being an American, and the Frenchman crops out at every corner.  But he is neither here, nor there, in our affairs; what I wish you to remember is, that rank has its duties as well as its privileges; and you would be a poltroon to accept one and ignore the other.  What are you going to do?”

“I know not.  I must think—­”

“I am ashamed of you!  In the name of all that is honourable, what is there to think about?  Have you told this Miss Moran that you love her?”

“Not in precise words.  I have only seen her three or four times.”

“Then, sir, you have only yourself to think about.  Have I a son with so little proper feeling that he needs to think a moment when the case is between honour and himself?  George, it is high time that you set out to travel.  In the neighbourhood of your mother, and your grandparents, and your flatterers in the city, you never get beyond the atmosphere of your own whims and fancies.  This conversation has come sooner than I wished; but after it, there is nothing worth talking about.”

“Sir, you are more cruel and unreasonable than I could believe possible.”

“The railings of a losing lover are not worth answering.  Give your anger sway, and when you are reasonable again, tell me.  A man mad in love has some title to my pity.”

“And, sir, if you were any other man but my father, I would say ‘Confound your pity!’ I am not sensible of deserving it, except as the result of your own unreasonable demands on me—­Our conversation is extremely unpleasant, and I desire to put an end to it.  Permit me to return to the house.”

“With all my heart.  But let me advise you to say nothing to your mother, at present, on this subject:”  then with an air of dejection he added—­ “What is past, must go; and whatever is to come is very sure to happen.”