Washington Square by Henry James

not quite what I should have liked you to say. I should have liked you to say, ‘If my father doesn’t think well of you, what does it matter?’ ”
    â€œAh, but it would matter; I couldn’t say that!” the girl exclaimed.
    He looked at her for a moment, smiling a little; and the doctor, if he had been watching him just then, would have seen a gleam of fine impatience in the sociable softness of his eye. But there was no impatience in his rejoinder—none, at least, save what was expressed in a little appealing sigh. “Ah, well, then I must not give up the hope of bringing him round.”
    He expressed it more frankly to Mrs. Penniman later in the evening. But before that he sang two or three songs at Catherine’s timid request; not that he flattered himself that
this would help to bring her father round. He had a sweet light tenor voice, and, when he had finished, everyone made some exclamation—everyone, that is, save Catherine, who remained intensely silent. Mrs. Penniman declared that his manner of singing was “most artistic,” and Doctor Sloper said it was “very taking—very taking, indeed,” speaking loudly and distinctly, but with a certain dryness.
    â€œHe doesn’t like me—he doesn’t like me at all,” said Morris Townsend, addressing the aunt in the same manner as he had done the niece. “He thinks I am all wrong.”
    Unlike her niece, Mrs. Penniman asked for no explanation. She only smiled very sweetly, as if she understood everything; and, unlike Catherine too, she made no attempt to contradict him. “Pray, what does it matter?” she murmured, softly.
    â€œAh, you say the right thing!” said Morris, greatly to the gratification of Mrs. Penniman, who prided herself on always saying the right thing.
    The doctor, the next time he saw his sister Elizabeth, let her know that he had made the acquaintance of Lavinia’s protégé.
    â€œPhysically,” he said, “he’s uncommonly well set up. As an anatomist, it is really a pleasure to me to see such a beautiful structure; although, if people were all like him, I suppose there would be very little need for doctors.”
    â€œDon’t you see anything in people but their bones?” Mrs. Almond rejoined. “What do you think of him as a father?”
    â€œAs a father? Thank heaven, I am not his father!”
    â€œNo; but you are Catherine’s. Lavinia tells me she is in love.”
    â€œShe must get over it. He is not a gentleman.”
    â€œAh, take care! Remember that he is a branch of the Townsends.”
    â€œHe is not what I call a gentleman; he has not the soul of one. He is extremely insinuating; but it’s a vulgar nature. I saw through it in a minute. He is altogether too familiar—I hate familiarity. He is a plausible coxcomb.”
    â€œAh, well,” said Mrs. Almond, “if you make up your mind so easily, it’s a great advantage.”
    â€œI don’t make up my mind easily. What I tell you is the result of thirty years of observation; and in order to be able to form that judgment in a single evening, I have had to spend a lifetime in study.”
    â€œVery possibly you are right. But the thing is for Catherine to see it.”
    â€œI will present her with a pair of spectacles!” said the doctor.

C HAPTER 8
    If it were true that she was in love, she was certainly very quiet about it; but the doctor was of course prepared to admit that her quietness might mean volumes. She had told Morris Townsend that she would not mention him to her father, and she saw no reason to retract this vow of discretion. It was no more than decently civil, of course, that, after having dined in Washington Square, Morris should call there again; and it was no more than natural that, having been kindly received on this occasion, he should continue to present himself. He had had plenty of leisure on his hands; and