a little sharp; so that he would perhaps not ask the question again. She didn't like it—it made her unhappy. But Catherine could never be sharp; and for a moment she only stood, with her hand on the door-knob, looking at her satiric parent, and giving a little laugh.
"Decidedly," said the Doctor to himself, "my daughter is not brilliant!"
But he had no sooner made this reflection than Catherine found something; she had decided on the whole to take the thing as a joke.
"Perhaps he will do it the next time!" she exclaimed, with a repetition of her laugh. And she quickly got out of the room.
The Doctor stood staring; he wondered whether his daughter were serious. Catherine went straight to her own room, and by the time she reached it she bethought herself that there was something else—something better she might have said. She almost wished, now, that her father would ask his question again, so that she might reply: "Oh yes, Mr. Morris Townsend proposed to me, and I refused him!"
The Doctor, however, began to put his questions elsewhere; it naturally having occurred to him that
