assure you, if you'd wait a little—until mother comes back.”
This appeal for delay was much to Mr. Hilbery’s liking. But his conscience would not suffer it. People were talking. He could not endure that his daughter’s conduct should be in any way considered irregular. He wondered whether, in the circumstances, it would be better to wire to his wife, to send for one of his sisters, to forbid William the house, to pack Cassandra off home—for he was vaguely conscious of responsibilities in her direction too. His forehead was becoming more and more wrinkled by the multiplicity of his anxieties, which he was sorely tempted to ask Katharine to solve for him, when the door opened and William Rodney appeared. This necessitated a complete change, not only of manner, but of position also.
“Here’s William,” Katharine exclaimed, in a tone of relief. “I’ve told father we’re not engaged,” she said to him. “I've explained that I prevented you from telling him.”
William’s manner was marked by the utmost formality. He bowed very slightly in the direction of Mr. Hilbery, and stood erect, holding one lapel of his coat, and gazing into the centre of the fire. He waited for Mr. Hilbery to speak.
Mr. Hilbery also assumed an appearance of formidable dignity. He had risen to his feet, and now bent the top part of his body slightly forward.
“I should like your account of this affair, Rodney—if Katharine no longer prevents you from speaking.”
William waited two seconds at least.
“Our engagement is at an end,” he said, with the utmost stiffness.
“Has this been arrived at by your joint desire?”
After a perceptible pause William bent his head, and Katharine said, as if by an afterthought:
