His conference with Sir Walter was short and humiliating. The baronet’s open disdain could not but affect him, — though, with all the good-will in the world, Frederick tried to be amused, rather than mortified, at the folly and impertinence of his father-in-law elect. That old man certainly had a bee in his bonnet about pedigree! He appeared to see the thing in no other light.

And therefore, after Frederick had answered sundry questions touching his family, — after he had assured Sir Walter, decidedly, that his Wentworths were, in fact, not at all connected to the earls of Strafford, — no, not even by a bastard branch, — that he was sprung from nothing higher, in short, than an old parsonage-house in northern Hampshire, — that he was, in that sense, a gentleman, — and, above all, (spoken with dignified asperity) an officer in his majesty’s navy, — after he had told him his mother’s maiden name, and a number of other irrelevant minutiae, — the father had no more attention to spare for the business. He grew bored and fidgety, and presently dismissed his ardent guest.

Frederick was utterly disgusted. He had not expected much from Sir Walter, indeed, — but indeed, this was worse than he expected. Such an insolence of conduct towards himself might in justice offend, — yet, after all, c’est la guerre . It was the indifference, the incomprehensible coldness, thus demonstrated towards Anne that most staggered, most shocked and wounded his feelings. For, upon his dismission, Frederick had been informed, and with an air of perfect nonchalance, that “if Anne Elliot could think of disgracing herself, her birth, in such an union, Sir Walter should not think it worthwhile to prevent her.”

This was lucky, perhaps, all things considered! Anne was not legally of age for another two years, and therefore any absolute prohibition of the marriage, from her only parent, might involve them in real distress. And yet, that her father should be so indifferent! — so passive and incurious! — in a question on which must depend all her happiness for life!

That, although apparently disapproving Anne’s match, — for whatever spurious, whimsical reasons of his own, — Sir Walter should yet not exert himself to stop it. That part was perfectly unfathomable. What incomprehensible neglect of a first duty! What injustice and unkindness she always received! And for what reason? — none! It was unfathomable, incomprehensible. He felt for her more than ever. She was a Cinderella, a damsel in distress in real life, and her wrongs inspired a kind of violent, quixotic fervor. He believed he loved her more than ever. What a satisfaction it would be, some day soon, to be able to reflect that he had saved her! — to have swept her away from these weak-headed, cold-hearted Elliots! Sir Walter might not be exactly an ogre (as he had insisted to Edward), — but still, the fair lady must be rescued, nonetheless.

He encountered the fair lady in the hall, pacing, bonneted and ready to walk out. She was to go with him to the end of the village, then turn back and call at Kellynch Lodge. Her big eyes met his, with a look of anxious inquiry.

“He did not forbid it,” Frederick whispered.

“Oh,” she cried, “thank God!” — and her manner then was so earnest, so full of agitation, that her lover wondered, for the first time, what she would have done if he had forbidden it. Sir Walter’s consent seemed to matter to her, — rather more than Frederick had known.

The details of the discourse were less pleasing to relate. He made the best of it, however, to shield her, — and they both worked hard to be cheerful and satisfied. This was a day marked out for happiness, of course, — as the very first full day of their engagement. It was quite essential to be happy and cheerful. Not disturbed, not hurt, not abashed, and not disappointed.

“Did you tell him,” she laughed, as they passed hand in hand through the park, — “that gentle Desdemona was half the wooer?”

“Half? — ha! — no, I laid the blame entirely on you!”

“Chivalry itself!”

“Nothing but the truth,” he said, bounding along in an exuberant manner. “No, I told him only the plain truth, — that you are violently in love with me, — and you simply cannot live without me, — so, he had better let me take you at once, — or else, you will die of a broken heart, and then where would he be?”

“Nonsense!”

“Is it?”

“You told him no such thing.”

“True, true, you have caught me. No, — what I really said was this, — let me see! — that I cannot by any means submit to live without you, — and so, he had better let me take you in marriage, in an honourable way, — or else, I shall creep into your room, some moonlit night, — and snatch you from your bed, — and carry you off with me by force!”

Anne generally did him the honour of laughing at his jokes, and this was not an exception. But, he had said nothing of the kind, however, she was sure!

“Well, perhaps not in so many words! But it was implied, I assure you. Strongly implied.”

At the village green they parted. He debated a moment, whether or not he might be permitted to kiss her, — out here, in the open air, — but before he could resolve upon anything, she had pressed his hand, with a kind word, and was gone.

They would meet again to-morrow.

To-morrow, to-morrow.