“Heer Burgomaster, I have Mistress Hilvardine's consent to ask you for her hand in marriage. Will you give her to me?”
The Burgomaster uttered an oath. “No!” he roared. “A hundred times no! This, sir, is a pretty piece of impertinence—first to steal my daughter's affections, and then to ask her father for her hand. I have a better match in mind for my daughter than you, Master Chenoweth.”
The hot blood surged into the young advocate's face as he replied: “There is just as good blood in my veins as in yours, Heer Burgomaster. To be sure, I have not as much money as you have, but youth and health are mine, and I am in a fair way to amass a fortune.”
“The marriage settlement would doubtless furnish you an excellent basis on which to build your air-castles,” said the magistrate with cutting irony.
“I do not care for a ryksdaaler of your daughter's dowry,” said the young advocate passionately. “Give me Hilvardine and keep your gold. Nature has amply furnished her with a dowry, which is all that any man could ask or desire.”
“Well, Master Chenoweth, you cannot have my daughter, and that ends the whole matter. She is already promised to another.”
“Our daughter's wishes in the matter ought to be respected, Anthony,” said Mistress Van Straalen in pleading tones. “Surely, husband, we could not
