Washington Square by Henry James

this arrangement made?” the doctor asked.
    â€œThis afternoon—two hours ago.”
    â€œWas Mr. Townsend here?”
    â€œYes, Father; in the front parlor.” She was very glad that she was not obliged to tell him that the ceremony of their betrothal had taken place out there under the bare ailanthus trees.
    â€œIs it serious?” said the doctor.
    â€œVery serious, Father.”
    Her father was silent a moment. “Mr. Townsend ought to have told me.”
    â€œHe means to tell you tomorrow.”
    â€œAfter I know all about it from you? He ought to have told me before. Does he think I didn’t care, because I left you so much liberty?”
    â€œOh no,” said Catherine, “he knew you would care. And we have been so much obliged to you for—for the liberty.”
    The doctor gave a short laugh. “You might have made a better use of it, Catherine.”
    â€œPlease don’t say that, Father!” the girl urged, softly, fixing her dull and gentle eyes upon him.
    He puffed his cigar awhile, meditatively. “You have gone very fast,” he said, at last.
    â€œYes,” Catherine answered, simply, “I think we have.”
    Her father glanced at her an instant, removing his eyes from the fire. “I don’t wonder Mr. Townsend likes you; you are so simple and so good.”
    â€œI don’t know why it is; but he
does
like me. I am sure of that.”
    â€œAnd are you very fond of Mr. Townsend?”
    â€œI like him very much, of course, or I shouldn’t consent to marry him.”
    â€œBut you have known him a very short time, my dear.”
    â€œOh,” said Catherine, with some eagerness, “it doesn’t take long to like a person—when once you begin.”
    â€œYou must have begun very quickly. Was it the first time you saw him—that night at your aunt’s party?”
    â€œI don’t know, Father,” the girl answered. “I can’t tell you about that.”
    â€œOf course; that’s your own affair. You will have observed that I have acted on that principle. I have not interfered; I have left you your liberty; I have remembered that you are no longer a little girl—that you have arrived at years of discretion.”
    â€œI feel very old—and very wise,” said Catherine, smiling faintly.
    â€œI am afraid that before long you will feel older and wiser yet. I don’t like your engagement.”
    â€œAh!” Catherine exclaimed, softly, getting up from her chair.
    â€œNo, my dear. I am sorry to give you pain; but I don’t like it. You should have consulted me before you settled it. I have been too easy with you, and I feel as if you had taken advantage of my indulgence. Most decidedly you should have spoken to me first.”
    Catherine hesitated a moment, and then, “It was because I was afraid you wouldn’t like it,” she confessed.
    â€œAh, there it is! You had a bad conscience.”
    â€œNo, I have not a bad conscience, Father!” the girl cried out, with considerable energy. “Please don’t accuse me of anything so dreadful!” These words, in fact, represented to her imagination something very terrible indeed, something base and cruel, which she associated with malefactors and prisoners. “It was because I was afraid—afraid—” she went on.
    â€œIf you were afraid, it was because you had been foolish.”
    â€œI was afraid you didn’t like Mr. Townsend.”
    â€œYou were quite right. I don’t like him.”
    â€œDear Father, you don’t know him,” said Catherine, in a voice so timidly argumentative that it might have touched him.
    â€œVery true; I don’t know him intimately. But I know him enough; I have my impression of him. You don’t know him either.”
    She stood before the fire with her hands lightly clasped in front of her; and her father, leaning back in his chair and